


Blood and Battle

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Agron BELIEVES in the Greater Good, Agron LISTENS to Nasir, Agron OWES Naevia... BIG TIME, Agron POV, Agron and Crixus canNOT do apologies, Agron and Crixus have N O T H I N G in common... or do they?, Agron and Duro learn Latin, Agron comes from a very proud people with strange customs, Agron ends up with a roommate AND HE IS NOT COMPLAINING, Agron expresses f e e l i n g s, Agron has wilderness survival skills, Agron hates Gauls for REASONS, Agron is Nasir's No. 1 fan, Agron is a professional Big Brother, Agron is in charge of things, Agron keeps his word to Spartacus, Agron seriously considers killing Spartacus only once... twice... OK ten times max in a given day, Agron tolerates no bratty shit... especially from Nemetes, Agron totally holds grudges for shit that could have happened, Agron translates all the things... sort of, Agron's place is beside Nasir, Agron's temper REMASTERED in High-Definition, All Nasir has to do is ASK, Also this is all Agron's fault, BBQ at the arena... get your seat before all the good ones are gone?, Backstory, Basically Agron is Good with his hands... and Nasir is down with that, Canon Compliant, Celts are ANNOYING AS FUCK, Chadara applauds Nasir's life choices, Concussions are Not Fun, Crixus learns why Agron hates Gauls, Donar is jealous of Agron's souvenirs, E V E R Y O N E teases Agron, Episode 2x02, Episode 2x03, Episode 2x04, Episode 2x05, Episode 2x08, Episode 2x09, Glaber is a weasel, How has Agron NOT killed Fulco yet? I MEAN REALLY., I can't begin to deal with Agron's RAGE, I just really needed to know what the dude was thinking 24/7, It's a busy chapter with no reference to actual canon events, Knife handling porn?, LUGO HELPS, Late to the fandom means I tried to reinvent the wheel and Figure It Out by myself, Lost things of importance are returned... well 2 out of 3 anyway, Lugo did not get the BAMF Nasir memo, Lugo tells it like it is or how he sees it... eh it's all the same to him, M/M, Missing Scenes, Nasir cannot deal with Feelings, Nasir flirts like a pro, Nasir gets ANGRY when his Agron is damaged, Nasir intends to Set The Record Straight, Nasir is awesome of course, Nasir is good at fighting in close quarters, Nasir is totally the gold medalist of Teasing, Nasir makes his MOVE and climbs Agron like he's a tree, Nasir makes one badass slaver, Nasir wants to be badass again LIKE YESTERDAY, Nemetes is an insecure instigating shit, Pissing happens, Serious overuse of the word "FUCK", Spartacus (aka The Angel on Agron's Shoulder), The road to Capua is not direct from Germania, Wall porn?, Wall-to-wall feels happening, Welcome to my headcanon, Wine flows and differences are settled, commanding German warriors is like herding cats, episode 2x06, episode 2x07, hair porn?, scene filler, sexytimes happen and no one cares that they're both still wearing their shoes OK?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 69,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13559274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: “Blood and battle are all I have ever known.” --Agron from the lands east of the RhineWARNINGS: If you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this work is an expansion on that, I'm sticking with that rating.) FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.NOTES: Feel free to browse through the comments.  Some interesting character discussions happen there... but mostly I just spout more of my headcanon and enjoy being ridiculous.  (^_~)





	1. Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened because of Agron. I was so intrigued by Dan's performance and the dialog provided by the writers and the scenarios presented by the creators that I had to go DEEP into this character. I would have titled this "Meditations on Agron" but the "blood and battle" line (from "Spartacus: War of the Damned," Episode 10) was what kicked off this whole thing -- I started wondering what kind of past Agron would have had to prompt his claim that blood and battle are all that he's ever known. Aaaaand, here we are.
> 
> I'm sure I've gotten a lot of things "wrong" -- both canon-wise and historical-accuracy-wise -- but I was watching this show alone and what follows are my honest impressions. (If I make changes to the work following discussion with fellow fans, I will make a note of it. Influences from other fanfic will also be referenced.)
> 
> For anyone who is also reading my "And Prove More Fierce" series -- I started writing "Blood and Battle" first and completed the first 18 chapters before I switched over to dabble in a world where Nasir meets Duro. Just a little useless trivia for ya there. (^_~)
> 
> I'm dedicating this posting date to soldmysoulforasmile (formerly FuckinGauls here on AO3) who is every kind of amazing in the history of EVER... and without whom, I might still be hoarding this fic on my hard drive.
> 
> Theme music for "Blood and Battle":  
> "Oceans" by Evanescence  
> "Smokestacks" by LAYLA  
> "Circles" by Ludovico Einaudi ft. Greta Svabo Bech  
> "No Rest For The Wicked" by Lykke Li  
> "Love Is A Battlefield" cover by Sada Vidoo

 

When their father departed this world for the afterlife, their mother took Agron and Duro to the fort.  Agron could barely remember that day he’d been so dazed with shock.  He hadn’t yet been old enough to work the fields as he could remember his father doing.  Duro had been two summers younger than Agron, too young to remember their life before the death of their father at all.

They both had memory of their mother… and the new husband she had taken.  A man recently widowed with six children of his own.  Though Agron knew her face and form, their mother had become more a kindly stranger than blood kin.

Duro was Agron’s only blood kin; they stood together among the other apprentices, children trained by the guard that protected the fort and the chieftain’s family within.  They were taught to fight for lord and land: first with a wooden practice blade and then with a heavy steel sword.  They were fed tales of glory on the battlefield and songs of an afterlife brimming with endless rewards for those of courage.

Agron embraced these stories and his brother in equal measures, intertwining their fates from the very start.

Agron and Duro wrestled with the other boys and the few girls who also lived within those wood and earthen walls.  When Agron’s height reached the deep mark gouged into the post at the main entrance to the hall where they each made up their beds before nightly rest, he went out with the raiding parties, emerging from his first battle with blood splatter across his smile.

“Twist victory into your hair,” Agron was told by the older men.  He’d seen the warriors doing just that over meal fires often enough to know how to do it though his fingers had taken to task clumsily at first.  With persistence, he prevailed.

Duro was jealous of Agron’s adventures of blade and shield.  His envy pleased Agron, yet Agron tried to offer some consolation, some advantage that life at the fort held… but he could think of nothing.  Not even the comforts of the water-tight roof or the soft bedding within the fort surpassed the harshness of the land and weather or the excitement of hot blood steaming from a slain enemy.  The raids were incomparable.  The cries of battle.  The rush of the attack.  The satisfaction of returning with livestock, weapons, coin, food…

Agron held no desire to turn toward any other life.  He was pleased not to spend his days tilling the land as the sons and daughters of their mother’s husband now did.  A slow, plodding existence.  Pale and unrelenting.  Day upon day.

“I will never settle to land,” he declared to Duro following a returning feast, drunk on his own prowess.

“Neither will I,” Duro asserted.

Agron laughed and teased, “How know you this?  You’ve not joined the warriors yet.”

“Not yet, but soon.”

Yes, soon after, Duro grew tall enough.  That spring, Agron’s younger brother saw his first battle.  His first slain enemy.  His first wound.  His first fever.

“Fuck it all to shit,” Agron complained as he hauled his brother along on the journey back to the fort.  “Did you sit with arm up fucking ass for past two summers?”

“Cock in cunt,” he corrected with a fat grin.

Agron would have punched him if he hadn’t required use of both hands in keeping Duro upright and his arm over Agron’s shoulders.  “Coin wagered on that would be lost.”

Duro tried to strike him, but was too ill to manage it.  Instead, they both laughed.

In the warm months, they raided with the other warriors.  They even fought occasional Roman conscript centuriae that foolishly ventured onto their lord’s lands.

In the cold months, they bickered and jested -- ate, drank, wrestled.  After breaking numerous benches and even a sturdy table in the hall, they’d been ordered to take their tempers outside to cool off in the snow or face the consequences of a public flogging.

Duro, who had long made a habit of taking note of the serving girls, was beginning to receive attention in kind.  Agron shook his head in derision at the increasingly familiar sounds of his brother’s boyish laughter intermingling with a girl’s giggles.  Every time he walked past a shadowed corner to take a piss, it seemed.

“Get her with child and it’ll be your balls,” Agron threatened him almost daily.

Duro laughingly returned, “Not to worry!  I’m not with one long enough for seed to sprout.”

“Fucking moron.”

Agron steered clear of the fort’s serving girls.  He had no words of any import to share with anyone who did not wield weapon.  He spoke with a few of the girls among the guard.  Girls who had grown to be fierce fighters and even fiercer manipulators, maneuvering both cock and intent of the men around them.  Agron left them to it.

As warriors in service to the chieftain, neither brother held much to call his own.  A small share of the summer’s profits, but no land or home.  Not yet.  Considering Duro’s popularity with the girls, Agron resolved to set aside half of his own future coin and plunder for the purpose of securing a home for Duro and the wife his brother would undoubtedly take.  Duro’s bravado and charm would not lead him to the life of a weathered, solitary warrior.

Agron was certain that would be his own fate and he welcomed it.

In the meantime, Agron and Duro alternately traded boyish giggles and punches alike, but on field of battle, they fought side by side with gratifying success that gained the attention of both their own chieftain and those of the clans they attacked.

As another spring was revealed beneath the slush of melting snow, they took to path again.  It would be the last raid for Agron and Duro, both.  The enemy remembered them.  Prepared for them.  Outmaneuvered them.  Duro was struck in the head hard enough to blur his vision.  Though unable to defeat so many enemies absent aid, Agron refused to leave his brother’s side.  He watched, inflamed with fury, as their brethren retreated absent plunder and glory.

Agron held neither hope nor expectation of rescue.  The only time they had returned for a fallen man had been in Agron’s first summer among their ranks.  The fourth son of their chieftain had fallen in battle.  It had cost three lives to reclaim the corpse.

He was unsurprised when no aid came.

Two brothers, abandoned again.  Hands bound.  A raft across the Rhine.  Triumphant smirks from faces of shit-eating Gauls.

Agron had every expectation that he would die tied to the fucking pole in center of camp, sunk up to his ankles in mud and shit and piss, skin mottled with bruises and welts and lash marks.  There was rotten food upon the ground, morsels the Gauls had mockingly tossed to them.  Agron could not remember his last drink of water; he’d licked the dew from the pole in early morning.  It had not been enough.  This death -- tied, beaten, starved to weakness -- was worse than what had befallen their father.

Long past the need for food, Agron clung to the promise of glory in battle.  If the gods willed that he and his brother die upon these fucking poles absent sword in hand, then let there be blood upon thoughts.

He looked across the way to Duro.

_****Apologies.** ** _

Duro nodded once, drew a deep breath, and gathered his courage.

Agron mimicked weakness -- rolled his eyes back as if dizzy and delirious -- to draw them in.  Hands grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the wooden support he’d been tethered to.  Duro screamed his name and Agron gritted his teeth and waited, waited, _****waited****_  for the opportunity to send even one of these fucks to the afterlife!

He slumped, panting and shivering, and two of the Gauls who jeered and laughed leaned close enough to whisper threats in words Agron did not understand.

He struck.

Agron lashed out, hooking an arm around the throat of one and kicking the other toward Duro.  He was condemning them both to death but it would be had in defiance and, with any luck, it would win them a seat of some minor honor at the Eternal Banquet.

The Gaul died, throat crushed beneath Agron’s arm.

The other spun and stumbled.  Duro kicked the fuck in the head so hard that the man dropped flat upon back in the muck and did not move.

Blades flashed.

This would be the end, then.  Agron looked to Duro, who lifted his chin and grinned.

A shout stayed the coming blows.  A man with shrewd eyes who preferred coin over vengeance.  A slaver.

Money across palms.  Chains around wrists.  A journey upon aching feet through the forests west of the Rhine.  South.  Squalid, shit-filled cities that were nameless to Agron.  Strange words and master’s whip.  Nights spent within a tiny stable stall rank with muck and rotted straw bedding.  Food that was rancid on the tongue.  Fights.  Many fights upon the filthy soil of the small center ring as the reeking, sneering crowd spat and hissed and screamed at them to win, to lose, to spill blood.

Agron and Duro fought opponents at each other’s side; more profit could be gained from such a show.  The German brothers, Agron and Duro.  Sometimes they killed their opponents.  They were fed better if they deferred to instructions on the matter.  Survival was simple, straightforward, brutal.

They endured.

Days, weeks, time held no meaning in a place that was never graced by sunlight.  Agron counted the fights and the long rest between wretched fucking crowds as a day gone but it might have been two or three.  Meals were irregular and bellies never absent hunger.  But by his reckoning, over a hundred days passed before they were sold again.

Southward once more if the smell of salt in the air was true.  The leaky, dank slaver ship delivered them to a port city.  Neapolis, he overheard in passing as he and Duro were taken beyond the bustle of town.  Their destination: a farm.  Of sorts.

Months of hard labor: training in the morning and then work in the fields followed by fights of spectacle in the evening twice every seven days.

Agron and Duro did not learn the common tongue of Rome so much as it was beaten into them.  Pounded against skin and muscle and ears equally.

“Do well enough and you may one day set foot upon the sands of the arena,” they were told.

Agron and Duro resented chain and shackle equally, but the prospect of distant glory was one thing they could hope for.

There was no opportunity to escape.  Agron knew this because he looked for it as Duro grinned and laughed and got knocked on his foolish ass.  His brother’s irreverent humor and indefatigable words ever lifted Agron’s spirit against the knowledge that there was no path which would lead them back to their homeland.  There was only the path ahead.  Deeper into Rome and larger arenas with blood-soaked sand.

“We could do it,” Duro told him one afternoon as they hauled sacks of grain to the mill.  It was a usual chore, mindless but preferable to shoveling horse shit and digging water channels.

“Break our fucking backs and die here?” Agron sneered.

“No, you brainless fuck.  Fight in the arena: Brothers Duro and Agron.”

“Agron and Duro.”

“Drown in piss.”

That was what this place was.  A fucking river of it.  It didn’t reek as badly of piss and shit and rotting corpses as the sunless shanty they had been made to fight within, but the fresh air was naught but illusion.  The labor was real, prodding them toward the very death that Agron had never held any love for: a slow march of days that sucked the life from a man.  Their father’s fate.

As seasons passed and bodies turned lean and wiry from hunger and training, Agron’s ferocious and unstoppable temper grew.  Duro provoked him and there were more broken benches and tables, forcing them both to take rest on the hard-packed dirt of the hall they shared with other captured warriors.  Tasks were often disrupted by their brawls, leading to punishment of half rations and additional labors.

Then, one day, a splintering crack and a thundering crash: a wheel from a loaded cart destroyed so by Agron’s fall into it spilled the contents of the wagon.  Grain fell to mud and shit.  Agron guffawed through his bloody lip, proud of Duro for the well-executed throw that had sent him flying.  Duro grinned.  Their dominus, humorless Roman fuck, sent them from his sight.

They were sold to a man named Trebius.  The coin would compensate some of the damage that Agron and Duro had caused.  Agron could not help but feel satisfaction at their master’s misfortune in acquiring them in the first place.  It would always be so, Agron decided: he and Duro may be forced to serve, but they would also cause those who would call themselves their masters to _****pay.****_

Agron and Duro, in chains again.  Trading smirks in the wagon that rattled, creaked, and swayed upon the road.

“Would you be so glad to be bound for the mines?” another in shackles demanded.

“Let it be so!”  Duro boasted with a nudge upon Agron’s arm, “We would own the gold within a day.”

“Fucking moron,” Agron snorted but did not argue the notion.  Regardless of where they emerged, he would be pleased to fight beside Duro.  Agron’s face still hurt from the blow his brother had landed prior to the destruction of cart and contents.

The day was warm and sunny when they stood upon the stage in the small square of yet another strange Roman city.  Agron was unbothered.  He and Duro would see this through together.  As always.

One hundred denarii found them and four others, including a fucking Gaul by name of Segofax, bound for the house of Batiatus.  Agron and Duro exchanged questioning looks, neither recognizing the Roman’s name.  The Gaul among their group did not offer comment.  A fourth man -- the same who had warned them that they might yet be destined for the mines -- had heard the name before.  Batiatus, a dominus of gladiators.  A lanista.  The proudest in Capua.

“You will follow instruction,” they were ordered by Doctore, “or you will face consequence.”

This was nothing new, but as Agron took in the hard stares of the gladiators beneath the balcony, men who had fought and bled and survived the arena, he realized the precipice he and Duro now stood upon.  A ledge much like the one at the side of the training yard.  They would fight or they would die.  They would likely not be sold again.  It was time to choose.

Agron’s fisted hands tightened.

“What is beneath your feet?” Doctore demanded, pacing before the recruits.

A moment of pause.  Agron held his breath, pleading for Duro to just keep fucking mouth shut for once--

“Sand,” his brother retorted.

Agron could hear the boastful grin.

The words “fucking idiot” escaped him at his brother’s misplaced wit.  The moron had not the sense to see the stakes before them.

Spartacus, the Bringer of Rain and Slayer of Theokoles, stepped forward upon command and answered the challenge, “Sacred ground, Doctore.”

Whether it was such or not, Agron understood that this place would be unlike the ones they had suffered thus far.  These men did not fight for survival, but for something Agron sorely missed and longed to possess in his heart once again: glory.

They were lorded over.  Lectured.  Made to expose their cocks.  Much to Agron and Duro’s shared shock.

When Agron’s gaze dropped to the Gaul’s cock, the sacred sand beneath Agron’s feet somehow gained purchase in his throat and stuck there.

The ludus was filthy, but both Agron and Duro had known worse.

“Ah, the stench of shit,” Agron appraised with a noisy inhalation.

“But no piss.  Oh how I long for the comforts of home,” Duro joked.

They giggled like boys, earning glares from the gladiators within earshot.

They trained.  Slept on hard, stinking pallets.  Ate tasteless meals.  Bathed in pools that contained more sweat than fresh water.

They witnessed the punishment of the Gaul, Segofax, for attempt made on Spartacus’ life.

“A sight to wither cock unto the afterlife,” Duro summarized.

Agron did not correct him, but when they were accepted into the ludus proper and Duro complained of his brand, Agron teased him mercilessly lest Duro be distracted from training and feel the sting and bite of the whip.

Victory in the arena.  Glory unlike anything Agron had ever known.  Rewards of coin and whores.  Agron declined the latter.  Cunt was, as it had always been, a collar of its own upon a man.  Agron refused to suffer the indignity.  More so here where the men of the ludus traded the coin they’d earned in the arena for it.  He might be a slave and he might never again be given opportunity to shed Roman blood -- that wretched fuck of a slaver Trebius sprang first to mind -- but he could bleed them of coin.

As he would bleed Crixus, the supposed Undefeated fucking Gaul who unrelentingly unleashed his ire upon Duro.  They came to blows one day, Agron and Crixus, pounding fists against the other’s face to draw blood.

“You wish your brother dead?” Spartacus dared to utter, drawing Agron’s fury to the surface only to deflate when truth was spoken: all men must stand alone in the arena.

It was something to prepare for, though Agron held no expectation that it would come to pass.  They were the German _****brothers,****_  after all.  They were shield and sword.  A man would sooner be parted from own fucking shadow.

But then Batiatus did the unthinkable: he decreed that Agron and Duro would no longer fight side by side.

The sand of the arena -- the scales which weighed a man’s brutality and determination -- would offer no footing for Duro’s cocky grin and easy charm.  The brother who had always shoved enemy aside with shield, would face opponent absent Agron, absent _****sword****_  from grasp.

Duro would fall.

_****No.** ** _

There was but one course left to take: they would stand against the Romans.  They would kill them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this story, I propose that, after their capture in their homelands, Agron and Duro were traded or given (as tribute) to Gauls and they would have died there if a slaver (or someone with connections to slavers) hadn’t seen their coordinated attack and calculated their potential as fighters of spectacle.
> 
> From Gaulia, Agron and Duo may have been taken to a large city (not Capua) and forced to fight opponents in a place similar to The Pit in “Spartacus: Blood and Sand.”
> 
> Showing their worth as entertaining fighters, Agron and Duro were eventually sold (possibly because no one would bet against them any longer) to a dominus in the Roman countryside (whose slaves mainly fought in provincial arenas and he might have been hoping to use Agron and Duro to gain some recognition and invitation to enter his fighters in more prestigious games). They arrived at Neapolis via ship (this is in reference to Agron’s comment in “Spartacus: Vengeance” that he and his brother had come to the region that way) before being taken to the farm (which is meant to vaguely resemble a labor camp).
> 
> With this invented backstory, I wanted to contrast how Agron and Duro were sold in a “lot” of slaves with a Gaul (and men from other lands) versus how Agron and Spartacus liberated an entire ship full of nothing but Germanic warriors. (So there appears to be some middle-man type of shuffling going on for at least some slaves.) And also, Agron and Duro were pretty fluent in Latin when they arrived at Capua but the group that was liberated from the slaver ship was (on a whole) not, and I wondered how that could be if the lands east of the Rhine were (for the most part) unoccupied by Rome (as is implied in the TV show).
> 
> Regarding the dreadlocks/style of hair, I was HEAVILY influenced by the fic “Spilling in Your Wake” by aldiara here on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4933660 However, I’ll be revisiting the issue again much later on in this fic to expand upon its significance.
> 
> Up next, Season 2, Episode 2. Enter: Nasir.


	2. Wild Little Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skip the actual rebellion and slaughter within the house of Batiatus, as well as the immediate fallout. If you haven’t seen the TV series, the gap might be confusing. Hopefully, I’ve left enough hints to help fill in the blanks.

 

The villa was taken with ease.  Rhaskos and Acer receiving wounds that were hardly worthy of noting except Agron recalled the seemingly harmless scratch that had nearly claimed Spartacus’ life.

Food, drink, enough weapons to arm an additional dozen fighting men which they did not have.  The villa had yielded little more than a place to rest.  Agron gave no shit for the freed men and women.  They were Spartacus’ cause, not Agron’s.  Agron sought only to spill Roman blood.  More blood than his own two hands could manage.  Hence the need for warriors, enemies of Rome.

He sneered with distaste as his words failed to sway Spartacus from his intent to train worthless house slaves.  Agron knew not why the Thracian bothered to repeat same nonsensical arguments.  But, absent realistic expectation or not, Agron remained at the stubborn shit’s side.  Were Agron to take his leave, he would face same fucking problem of not enough fucking hands for fucking swords to take fucking Roman lives.

Strength in fucking numbers.

The villa’s newly freed men were brought forth to form a line.  As if they were at the front of a fucking Roman phalanx.

Spartacus spoke of choice.  He bid these men to cast off their bonds of slavery.  He invited them to take up arms.  Five of the precious swords they’d pried from dead Roman hands were thrust into the soft grasp of these fucking servants.

Foolishness.  All of this.  Wasted time and effort.  Agron’s moue of displeasure deepened until he could only shake his head in silent aggravation.

“Now,” Spartacus concluded, “who would have blood?”

A slight movement -- the clenching of jaw muscles -- drew Agron’s gaze to the young man of long hair and dusky skin who stood far right.  In the glow of light spilling from celebration within villa, Agron studied those dark eyes.  Would that the brief flicker of flame therein could see hands to purpose and wield weapon with skill.  Would that it were enough, but it wasn’t.  It never would be.

Agron strode away, intent on solitude.  And silence far removed from those fucking Gauls.

Finding a suitable spot in the yard of the villa, he kicked a garden bucket hard enough to bounce it against the stone wall, then up-ended it with his foot to take rest upon makeshift stool.  His shoulders pressed back against the cold wall of the stables and a long, hot breath escaped his chest.  But when he looked up to the night sky, unwelcome thoughts descended.

Duro.

Wrestling matches beneath the stars.

Venturing through cover of night to strike.

Sharing strips of cured meat at fireside.

“What did father look like?” Duro had once asked.

“A hard-working man,” Agron had answered, glad for the absence of the moon so that his brother could not see the pity Agron felt for Duro’s unformed memory.  “Dark of hair and eye.  Tall and strong.”

“So shall I be.”

“So you _****are,”****_  Agron had corrected with a slap upon back of head.  “Witless shit.”

Duro’s grin had been audible in the quiet of midnight.

And then their hands had been bound and their lives sold… and there had been no more pleasant night skies.  Duro had not lived to see it darken again as a man absent master.  The night Batiatus had fallen, Duro had breathed his last into the setting sun on distant horizon under blanket of cloud.

Fucking Romans.  Shit like Trebius and Batiatus.  They would deny whatever fucking amused them to do so.  Even a glimpse of the stars.

The sound of his own teeth grinding together came to him before the pain of it.  He clamped his jaw even tighter, but in vain.  There was no pain that outweighed the sick churning in his belly or distracted from the gaping hole of viscous pus and clotted blood where heart would beat.

Donar found him.  “Cease your wallowing.  Your grief stinks rancid.”

Agron’s jaw clenched and arms tightened upon chest.  “You mistake smell of grief for slain Roman shit.”

Donar leaned on the wall beside him.  “So you bathe yourself in Roman blood.  The stench is no sweeter.”

Eyes narrowing, Agron confronted Donar, “Then why follow Spartacus?”

Donar’s mouth turned up in a wry smile.  “Well, the women are agreeable.”

Agron dismissed him with a grunt of disgust.  “Then break words with them.”

“Fuck the gods, I think I will.”  But Donar did not seek other company.  Glaring helplessly at Agron, he sighed heavily.  “Can you not breathe fucking air without turning even that to shit?”

Agron closed his eyes.  “All turns to shit.”

“In the meantime, you yet draw breath as a free man.”

Mockingly, Agron replied, “With much gratitude given toward fucking cause.”

“For its price, one would think it worthy of such.”

_****For its price.** ** _

_****Duro.** ** _

It was just as well that Donar was hailed by another.  Agron’s fury was reignited and his trembling body moments away from surging to feet and knocking the man down upon fucking ass.

Drawing deep, measured breaths, Agron returned to the relative silence of the night, but he did not look up again.  Not until Mira came dashing from the villa and breathlessly informed him that an attempt had been made on Spartacus’ life.

“And he sends for an angry boy to piss on the shit?” he snarled as he gained feet.

_****“We need a leader, not some angry boy who cannot piss without splashing everyone about him!”** ** _

Mira did not deny sharing her opinion of Agron with Spartacus.  The words had been spoken with enough force to fucking echo in the city cisterns where they had all hidden like bedraggled rats.  Of course Agron had overheard.  He’d even taken pause, shocked out of his fury for a moment.  When Aurelia had begged to speak to Spartacus, he’d delivered the news solemnly, but the dying woman’s demand that Spartacus stay far from her young son so that the boy might not be caught in their wake of death had destroyed what little calm Agron had managed to grasp.

Mira could fuck her own cunt.  Agron would piss to splash Roman shit all he liked.  That fate and worse had been well and truly earned by the fucking citizens of Rome.

Agron didn’t wait for Mira to give direction.  He found Spartacus himself, following the glow of light to a single private chamber.  The Gaul was pacing.  Spartacus was regarding the man who had attempted to take his life.  Agron was astounded to see that the villain was none other than the slight man of long hair and fiery dark eyes.

The little man darted forward at Agron’s arrival, eyes upon the dagger in Agron’s belt.

Shock robbed Agron of anger even as he twisted aside.  He watched as the little man was grabbed and thrown back against the far wall before his arms were secured.  Amazingly, the former house slave paid his two captors, Sophus and Tychos, no mind.  His eyes blazed, blinding him to the gladiators who restrained his slender arms.

Well.  This was unexpected.

“You yet wish to train this fuck?” the Gaul demanded, eyes fixed upon the assailant.

Keeping both Spartacus and the little man in line of sight, Agron braced his forearm upon the hilt of the sword at his hip, dagger within easy grasp.

Spartacus insisted, “The boy deserves opportunity.”

Of course.  The fucking cause.  If Spartacus had already come to decision on the matter then for what purpose had Agron even been summoned?

The little man bared his teeth and, strangely, Agron felt no desire to leave, the rage in that smooth-shaven face striking an unexpected chord.

The Gaul argued for the little man’s death and Agron was disappointed in himself for sharing the same sense.  “Gods save me.”  He cast his gaze briefly skyward before confiding to Spartacus, “I find myself in agreement with a Gaul.”

Despite this, Spartacus had no intention of seeing reason.  Agron glared at the little man, who lowered gaze, fury either spent or tightly reined as the Gaul insisted death was the only recourse.

Spartacus challenged, “And what message would that send to those who wish to join our cause?”

“That they’d best be agreeable?” Agron was quick to answer.

“We’re Romans, then?”

If any other man had uttered those words -- implied such fucking offense -- Agron would have caved his skull in.  He looked away, shifting on his feet in an attempt to contain the incandescent rage.  He barely heard the remainder of Spartacus’ argument.

A final threat from the Gaul and a blow across the little man’s face.  A flash of teeth and fire as blood dripped from the freed man’s lips.  A soft hum of challenge escaped his throat.  If the sound had been any louder, Agron was certain the Gaul would have answered it with steel instead of storming from the room.  But depart he did.  No doubt to caution his men to turn mind toward back, which could be stabbed with knife wielded by the very hands that were now free to seek their own purpose.  The irony was not lost on Agron.

Spartacus fiddled with the dagger that had been the little man’s weapon of choice.

And not a poor choice of weapon.  It suited the little man’s build.  Chance of success would have been greater with dagger than sword despite the fact that both were easily obtainable.

The little man was intelligent, then.

With the Gaul gone, so too was the barely restrained resentment.  Agron was equal parts disappointed and vindicated.  Disappointed because the little man’s rage had been welcome in its familiarity to his own.  Vindicated because the little man clearly had the good sense to despise a shit-eating Gaul.

Those dark eyes moved from Spartacus to Agron, asking silent questions.  Agron found himself answering by leaning against the table beside Spartacus.  His movements lazy with confidence and chin lifted in challenge, Agron evaluated their captive from bowed head and uplifted gaze to soft hands and sleek torso.  Their new trainee.

Fuck the gods.

Uncertainty softened the little man’s gaze and Agron heard himself strike a blow of words: “And how do you propose we train this wild, little dog?”

Ah, yes.  There.  The rage returned: gaze sharpened and focused solely upon Agron.  Fiery resistance rekindled strong enough for the little man to shift forward, uncaring of the grasp yet upon him.

Spartacus answered, “As Batiatus and Doctore trained me.”

Agron sent a look of warning to Spartacus and his sarcasm rose to the fore: “And that turned out so well.”

As Agron’s opinion was clearly not sought in this matter, he left Spartacus to deal with his apprentice.  May they both fare fucking well in each other’s company.  Shy of beating words through the Thracian’s thick skull, Spartacus refused to heed sense.

Spartacus was going to get himself fucking killed by a fucking house slave.  Agron’s stomach twisted and his lips tightened in a sour frown.

Every man has his worth in-fucking-deed.

That both of them survived the night was an interesting revelation.  Agron was not sure which outcome he would have wagered coin on if he’d been of a mind.  While Spartacus would only strike a killing blow out of necessity, the little dog oscillated between fury and uncertainty.

The fury Agron could understand.

The uncertainty, however, Agron despised.

The little man was unpredictable.  That made him dangerous regardless of sword absent from hand.

“Should have put the boy down,” Donar appraised as they looked on during morning training.  Spartacus gave instruction and the little man’s sweeping movements spoke of muscles unused to wielding the weight of a gladius.  The momentum cast his arm wide, exposing him to attack despite shield… which he allowed to lower with frustrating frequency.

What a marvelous fucking idea, training former house slaves to fight in battle.  Fuck it all to shit.

“Dog bites once,” Donar opined, “it will bare fucking teeth again.”

Still watching the exercise in futility, Agron thought again of wasted time and effort.  This little man, despite his fierce eyes and bared teeth, would fall.  The Romans would carve him up and toss him aside.  As they had Aurelia.

Agron said only, “Pity.”

And it surprised him that he truly felt so.  It was a pity that this little man would go to the afterlife absent chance of enjoying the freedom offered.  It was cruel to dangle such hope before his nose as if Rome would somehow turn a blind eye, somehow not squash this little man in its mighty, meaty fist.

Who would remember him for his impressive defiance of the legendary Bringer of Rain?  Not his fellow former slaves.  They would recall only his servitude.  It was a pity.

Agron could not abide by it.

When the evening meal was taken and the fucking Gauls returned to singing about their cocks yet again -- clearly they had not the wits to remember any other tune -- Agron’s gaze sought out the little man.  He sat against a pillar in the room, keeping Spartacus in line of sight.

Agron felt his lips curl.  Not down into a frown, but upward.  The little fuck’s spirit was making him smile.  He couldn’t even place blame upon the wine; he had yet to partake of any.

An oversight quickly remedied.

Instead of one cup, he poured two and neared the little dog from behind, respecting the shit’s unrelenting and willful stare upon Spartacus.  Let the Thracian endure his own apprentice’s displeasure.  Agron and the Gaul had both fucking warned him.

“You press fortune,” Agron teased upon approach, “glaring so at the slayer of Theokoles.”

A brief look of annoyance was followed by swift retort: “His victory but proven even giants fall.”

Did the little man believe himself capable of besting the likes of the Bringer of fucking Rain?  The display of mettle sparked genuine humor, loosening the ever-present tension binding chest and Agron extended the cup in his right hand with an easy motion.

The little man took it with a quick glance upward, then returned gaze to target.  Agron was amused at being so dismissed.

Amusement was yet another thing he had not felt in a great many days.

Taking no pleasure at the thought of trading words with someone at his feet -- Agron was not a fucking Roman -- he crouched down just within reach of the little man’s arm but with enough room to allow for reaction to sudden strike.

“What name do you go by, little man?”

Dark eyes remained stubbornly focused on Spartacus.  Defying death itself.  Such a look revealed intent that would surely hasten one to the shores of the afterlife.

Agron was compelled to poke the little dog.  Just a bit.  “So I may properly mourn your passing.”

Dark eyes turned his way.  “I am called Tiberius.”

“Tiberius?”  Agron rejected the name, challenging the little man yet again: “You’re far too dark to have such a fair Roman name.”

“I’m more Roman than Syrian,” he insisted, giving ground with the slightest lift of chin and twitch of lashes.

Agron nodded.  They had found a sliver of common ground, yet it bore no pleasantness.  “There was a Syrian at our ludus.”  The smile that tugged at Agron’s lips was only a moment away from a snarl.  “A treacherous fuck if ever there breathed.”

There was a warning in Agron’s words; this little man would be distrusted by those of the brotherhood regardless of being forgiven his attempt on Spartacus’ life.  The fact that the little man had even mustered the resolve to inflict harm upon the Thracian actually brought him a measure of bemused tolerance by many gladiators.  Still, he would be wise to stop glaring and make effort to ally himself with his instructor.  Or seek fortune elsewhere, far from fucking cause.

Perhaps the little man had a home to return to.  Agron queried, “You had family there?”

“I only recall a brother.”  A distant look accompanied the words.

Agron nodded, mouth tensing along with throat and chest as he considered the yet undisturbed wine within cup.  “I, too, had a brother.”

That gave the little dog pause.  Catching scent of Agron’s pain.  Still, his tone was soft, gentle: “No longer?”

In an effort to separate the memory of Duro’s last moments from the taste of wine, Agron looked up, glaring at the formless enemy of agony.  He shook his head and exhaled sharply… as if doing so could dislodge the past from mind once and for all.  “He was struck down by the Romans.”

And Agron would not rest until many more had fallen in recompense for--

“When you turned swords against them.”

The accusation pierced deep, each word a wound, calling Agron a fucking fool.

A searing wave of fury crested within him.  His jaw locked and, for a moment, he lost sight of surroundings.  Hands tightened.  Lungs burned.  Blood roared.

Agron had stuck men for far lighter insults.

He did not strike the little dog.  The bite was well-earned.  In extending hand and lowering defense, Agron had been a fucking fool.  Lower shield, expect blow.  It was the simplest of lessons.

He could almost admire the little man’s attack.

Agron turned to meet it.

Those dark eyes glared at _****him****  _now, rather than Spartacus, and Agron smiled.  He felt it slip briefly -- as in the blink of an eye -- before taking hold against the tide of bloodlust that raged for blade’s edge and bare fucking hands to tear through Roman flesh.  Soon, Agron would answer that call and turn sword against one Roman fuck after another.

“As you shall one day,” Agron assured the little man.  And then all trace of humor vanished.  “If you hold any fucking sense.”

On that sobering note, he took to his feet, wine cup yet in hand.

He lifted it to his lips, but the smell turned his stomach.  Returning to the yard, Agron hurled the clay vessel at nearest wall and then moved to position upwind.  He stormed up the steps and through the maze of corridors.  The thought of gazing up at the night sky was unbearable.  There was neither wind nor breeze, but Agron could smell the sour reek of the wine regardless.  The stench of failure.  Would he ever spill enough Roman blood to wash it away?

Once -- a lifetime ago -- the Romans had not been Agron’s greatest enemy.  Once, Rome had been a distant annoyance.  A frustrating wave of hornets buzzing near overripe fruit.

Everything had changed in Capua as Agron had glimpsed Roman decadence and insatiable greed and arrogance.  Their fucking certainty that they owned every corner of the fucking world.  The belief that they held gods-blessed fucking claim to it.  How had he not seen it from the onset?  From the first instant of capture, the path had led him to wretched and willing service to his enemies.  Step by step and one by one, veils had been laid over his eyes until he’d gloried in the roar of the crowd in the arena.  He’d fucking reveled in it.  He’d taken pride in entertaining the fucking Romans.

He _****was****_  a fucking fool.

He was a fucking fool pissing about in a fucking Roman villa, prowling past one doorway after another to the sounds of drunken and frantic fucking.

Absent dominus and domina, this was how the liberated would spend what freedom they had.

Stomach soured, Agron sought out Spartacus.  Not necessarily for words, but merely to see if the man remained unassaulted.

Reaching the front of the villa, Agron took note of the little man’s presence beside a lit brazier.  The little dog’s bite still stung as if tooth marks could be seen upon hand.  Agron’s fists clenched.

Directing attention to Spartacus without also turning his back on the one who had been called Tiberius, he found himself breaking words in spite of intent otherwise, “When do we move to the next villa?”

“At first light.”  With a wry smile, Spartacus observed, “If your present mood is indication, you did not enjoy evening conversation.  It appeared you spoke of many things.”

Agron scowled.  “Break words with the shit yourself and satisfy fucking curiosity.”

“You did not even learn his name?”

With a dismissive shrug, Agron reported, “He was called Tiberius.”

Spartacus contemplated Agron’s irritation a moment longer before he volunteered, “Would that I had insisted upon learning it earlier and saved you further vexing.”

Agron blinked.  “You did not even ask your own fucking trainee for his name?”

“I had hoped he would offer it of his own volition.  He still does not trust--”  Spartacus ceased speaking at the sudden return of both posted scouts and news of riders drawing near.  More Romans hastening to their deaths.  Agron’s grip was tight upon sword, anticipating its grim purpose with eagerness.

But Spartacus thwarted him.  There were too many among their number who could not defend themselves against a greater force of soldiers should any Romans escape to call for reinforcements.  A small risk.  One that Agron and the Gaul shared views of.  But Spartacus insisted on concealing their movements from the Romans, which meant remaining hidden like fucking mice cowering in walls.

All for fucking cause.  Again.

The plan was set.  The little dog would take part.  Agron disliked the notion, but Spartacus would not be moved.  Stubborn fucking Thracian.

Agron considered looking the little man’s way to impart a brief warning, but he held to course, moving to the stable entrance and stepping back into the shadows to wait as one little, wild dog held the fates of many pinned beneath his paws.

_****“He will bare fucking teeth again.”** ** _

Agron did not doubt it.

And when the betrayal did come, when the Roman shits were called back and invitation was extended and the fucking Gaul roared a battle cry and Agron surged forward to join the fight, he was furious enough to lose sense of surroundings.  The blow against his cheek from the handle of a Roman sword sent blood spewing from his mouth and, raising gaze, he bellowed a warning to Spartacus.

A warning that was not needed.

The little dog had bared teeth again: the last Roman fuck choked on his own blood before crumpling to the ground, sword still stuck in back.

Agron pushed to his feet as the Gaul darted in, slamming the little man against the nearest pillar.  Spartacus was quick to come to aid for it had been his life that the little man had spared, but the fucking Gaul had head firmly planted in ass.

It was the little man himself who came to his own defense: “His eyes dropped to my neck and saw the absence of my collar.  If I had not allowed them in, he would have returned with more _****men!”****_

The Gaul’s sword and hand both lowered.  If Agron hadn’t been so stunned by the little man’s quick thinking -- cunning so like Spartacus’ own -- he would have enjoyed the fucking Gaul’s witless bafflement.

In truth, Agron was a little baffled himself.  The little man had been eager to face death just the night before.  He had seemed eager still less than an hour previous.  What had moved him to prolong the cause of a man he had spent this very evening glaring at?

The recipient of that ire moved forward, touching the little man’s shoulder.  “You did well, Tiberius.”

“Nasir.”

Spartacus paused, but the little man’s gaze had already moved past him to find Agron’s.  The little man swallowed thickly and repeated, “My brother called me Nasir.”

Agron looked into those dark eyes, caught breathless at the sincerity therein.  Though the words were heard by all in the yard, it was to Agron alone that he spoke.  Agron alone received the full weight of their meaning and he found himself poised upon a bridge that began and ended behind fortifications of anger and pain, the origins of each tether yet concealed from sight but no less real for it.

Unable to form words, Agron nodded once in acceptance and the little man -- Nasir -- seemed to take some comfort in it.  One corner of Nasir’s mouth twitched in a movement too brief to be a smile, but their gazes held fast.

Donar barely tolerated Agron’s company.

Mira openly doubted his ability to contain his own fury.

The fucking Gauls did not deign to break words with him.

Spartacus continued to be deaf to his counsel.

Yet this newly freed man, whose death Agron had argued for just one day ago, offered him trust.  It was but a small measure, too small for it to strike so deep, thudding inside chest as heartbeat, but it did.  For whatever fucking reason, this contrary, little Syrian and former house slave was willing to do what no one else among the brotherhood could bring themselves to dare: Nasir placed trust in him.

Agron had every intention of keeping it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right or wrong, I totally didn't get the vibe that Agron was intentionally flirting with Nasir in episode 2x02. I mean, Agron is still caught up in his grief and rage, right? Unintentional flirting, maybe, (as a brief and shallow distraction) but mostly a lot of big-brother attempts. At this point, Agron just wants to MATTER to someone. Or, that was the sense that I got, anyway.


	3. Absent Touch

 

Nasir never placed a hand upon Agron.  Or anyone.  Not even the freed slaves from his own villa.

Agron realized this in a sudden rush that left him dazed numb: he was watching as the day’s training was called to a halt and the freed men congratulated each other on their pitiful progress.  Though the congratulatory gestures were tame by ludus standards, there was much shoulder slapping and many elbows playfully taken to ribs.  Nasir smiled tiredly, his laughter breathy from exertion, but he stood apart.  He did not engage his brothers-in-arms.

It was then that Agron took pause and examined his memories of the man, this former body slave.  In doing so, he discovered the absence of any moment of contact initiated by Nasir.

The first time they had broken words together, Agron had extended a cup of wine.  Nasir had accepted it more to appease Agron than out of gratitude.  Their fingers had not brushed.  Nor had they upon any evening that had followed as Agron again and again poured two cups of wine, one for himself which he rarely finished and one for Nasir, who never attempted to serve himself despite the fact that he clearly found the taste favorable.

Wine cup.

Galdius and shield.

Bedding.

Meal bowl.

Water scoop.

No matter the item that passed from another’s hand to Nasir, the gesture was absent touch.

Nasir reached out to no one.

When next Agron was moved to pat his shoulder in camaraderie, he witnessed a moment of complete stillness, as if the man were uncertain of what response to give.  Agron recognized the posture: the night Nasir had felled the Roman fuck about to ram sword through the back of Spartacus.  In thanking Nasir for his quick wit and timely aid, Spartacus had touched his shoulder.  Though Nasir had not flinched, there had been no recognition of the gesture reflected in his expression or manner.

Nasir did not know how to accept simple contact.

“This unsettles you,” Agron observed, withdrawing his palm from the curve of the other man’s bare shoulder.

It was a measure of their growing friendship that Nasir carefully considered his next words rather than dismiss the remark.  “It is not a gesture I am familiar with.”  Dark gaze darted along the populated corridor of the most recently-liberated villa.  “Delivered so openly absent expectation.”

Agron felt his throat constrict.  His jaw clenched.

Nasir continued, turning back to meet Agron’s eyes, “Yet I see it eases your mind to do so.”

“My mind will not be eased at expense of yours.  I do not intend discomfort.”

“It is not discomfort…”

Agron waited for Nasir to finish his thought, watching with fascination brief flickers of frustration and embarrassment that tugged Nasir’s expression and brought blush to cheek.

“It is merely unfamiliar.”

Still Agron did not know what to say.

Nasir gave him a small, warm smile.  “When touch becomes familiar, I shall take comfort in it as you do.”

There were different manners of courage.  Agron had known only two with any certainty: his brother’s indefatigable laughter and Agron’s own fearlessness in battle.  Here and now, he was witness to a third.

Though unsettled by Agron’s unabashed inclination to touch, Nasir did not flinch away.  In consideration of Nasir’s determination to accept it, Agron took care to reach out with light touches only.  It was no hardship; Nasir drew a gentleness from him that he had not managed since holding his brother in his arms, carefully drawing sword from belly and pressing a kiss of regret upon grime-smeared brow above Duro’s empty gaze.

With every passing day and with every brief contact of skin, that pain was becoming easier to bear, though it did not lessen.  Agron did not expect or hope it ever would.  But with a companion at his back, perhaps he could become strong enough to shoulder it.

At the following villa, it was learned that a slaver’s caravan passed nearby with regularity.  The Gaul would not be swayed from taking it.  When the last Roman shit lay in a pool of his own blood, made so by Nasir’s sword, Agron grinned at the Syrian man.  The well-timed assault from behind was not a technique that Spartacus had taught.  It was not a technique favored in the arena as it denied the crowd the drama of a death match.  But such a maneuver had saved Spartacus from the sword of a fucking Roman soldier once.  And it had now saved Agron on this forested road.

“You favor clever strategy!” Agron declared with pride for Nasir’s increasing skill, unwavering bravery, and careful consideration of his own limitations.  The proof of the Syrian’s competence -- a streak of blood upon bronzed skin -- drew Agron’s gaze.  Made his mouth water.  He crowed helplessly: “Fuck the man from behind!”

A hesitant smile flickered upon Nasir’s lips.   _ ** **Discomfort.  Again.****_

Had Agron’s words called to mind memory of life under Roman command?

Fuck it all to shit and piss.

Frustrated with himself, Agron looked on as Nasir knelt beside the corpse.  The Syrian spoke: “Spartacus tells a sword becomes lighter in time.”

Ah, it was the death, then, that was the cause of Nasir’s unease.  Agron knelt opposite and considered him.

The contemplative look on Nasir’s face as he gazed down at the fallen Roman fuck brimmed with strange, inward-turned anger.  Of a sort that Agron had once seen in his brother’s eyes following Duro’s first battle.  More than a lifetime ago, it seemed.

Agron had slapped Duro on the back and jeered: _****“Do not weep like a fucking girl!”****_

Now, he said quietly to Nasir, “It is a heavy thing to rob a man of life.”  He then paused and reconsidered, “Less so that of a Roman shit."

A flicker of rage in Nasir’s eyes -- his fury stirred at the reminder that this Roman would make effort to bend Nasir’s will to his and, if given the chance, would use him and discard him -- was a familiar fire.  It called to Agron, who stood with a surge of energy and purpose.

Stepping over the prone slaver’s legs, he briefly tapped his fingertips on Nasir’s shoulder in passing.  “Stay close by.  I will help shoulder weight until--”

…until that fucking slaver gasped with sudden life and broke words on Naevia’s fate; Nasir’s shoulder remained beside Agron’s, distributing the burden of knowledge equally between them.

…until Nasir began to confess Naevia’s whereabouts to the Gaul, struggling not to fall to instinct and flinch away from the former champion’s intimidating countenance.

…until Agron lied: “Naevia is dead.”

When the dazed Gaul turned away, Agron felt Nasir’s questioning gaze.  He returned it with a slow shake of his head.

Bound together with false words, Agron reveled in the intimacy of a thing known only by the two of them.  It brought to mind the scar on Agron’s chest, gained in battle long ago: in the chaos, he had turned to lend aid to his yet inexperienced brother and had stepped into the path of Duro’s wild swing.  They had never broken words on it to dispel the assumption that Agron had survived a strike from enemy hands.

In the wake of the Gaul’s despair, Agron felt his own position among the rebels rise and the ground beneath his feet firm.  He offered plans to increase their forces with genuine warriors and enemies of Rome.  Men and women with the strength, skill, and desire to spill Roman blood.

Spartacus heeded his words: they would acquire position near Vesuvius and strike port to liberate fighting men to aid in the killing of fucking Romans.

_****Finally.** ** _

Agron’s chest swelled with pride.

“I would break words with Crixus,” Spartacus declared upon the conclusion of their meeting.

Agron sputtered, “Toward what end?”

“The man is in need of distraction,” the Thracian explained slowly as if speaking to a child, “from wounded soul.”

Scowling at Spartacus’ retreating back, Agron rolled up the map, handling it roughly.  It was wasted effort to offer words of comfort to the Gaul.  Even Agron could see that.  Grief could not be wrested from a man’s grasp before fingers unclenched their death grip.  It would be some time yet before the Gaul regained feet and purpose.

Agron’s took him to the other side of the villa in search of Nasir.

He found the Syrian man in contemplation of the man Spartacus had clearly just failed to rouse to cause.

“A sword in his chest would be a blow less felt,” Nasir remarked, clearly moved by the Gaul’s misery.

Where Agron had been frustrated by the same sentiments from Spartacus, he was bemused and -- fuck -- _****endeared****_  by Nasir’s genuine sympathy toward a man who had struck him upon first meeting.  The Syrian man’s strength of heart was unmatched by anyone in Agron’s memory.  Except, perhaps, Duro’s.

Agron loosely curled his fingers around Nasir’s arm and leaned forward, breaking words gently, “We have all made sacrifices.  Crixus now makes his.”

Nasir turned toward the Gaul where he sat sprawled in vacant corridor, wall at back and wine jug beside.  “I would speak with him.”

The little man would speak with a drunken, heartbroken champion of the arena who idly twisted a gladius in hand, point set against the stone walkway?  Yes, wonderful fucking idea.  With a swift lunge, Agron’s hand once again found Nasir’s arm in effort of holding the man fast at his side.

“Your words would only cause greater suffering!  If he knew the truth…”  Agron shook his head, refusing to consider another course.

Nasir’s gaze lowered, not in acquiescence but in resistance.

Absent thought, Agron settled palm against bare neck in a gesture that was commanding and intimate.  The pale band of skin had since darkened under the touch of the sun but it felt as if the sun itself resided within Nasir, releasing its merciless warmth through the man’s very flesh.  Agron’s fingers curled around long strands of hair at the nape of Nasir’s neck and Agron was stirred to speak with an intensity he could neither dismiss nor explain.

“I would not have you and countless others fall in vain attempt,” he entreated.  His hand lingered a moment longer, nudging Nasir to bend to reason.

Nasir nodded.

Agron withdrew and playfully tapped the Syrian man’s shoulder.  “Come.  There is much planning needed toward Neapolis.”

With a faint smile, Nasir followed.

Agron was cheered.  Since Duro’s death, he’d had precious few opportunities to protect and guide as was ever an elder brother’s charge.  His words now fell with the weight of importance upon ears of all as they prepared to move their forces to safe position of advantage.

Even the Gaul put mind to purpose, pledging to follow Spartacus… who now heeded Agron.

All stood as it should and, for the first time since he and his brother had been taken from their homeland, beaten and starved for sport, and then tossed into a stinking pit to brawl like animals for the entertainment of piss and shit, Agron was pleased with events.

Morning arrived with controlled chaos.  As final preparations were being made for the coming trek, Agron passed through the overgrown courtyard, breaking words with Donar and Fulco, when that fucking Gaul charged him like an enraged bull, bellowing, _****“Agron!”****_

Head snapping back and skull cracking against stone pillar, fists landed hard before Agron gained his bearings.  But then shock gave way to pain, calling forth overwhelming fury at the sudden attack.  A lifetime of training had Agron returning barehanded blows until Donar was aided in separating Agron from the furious Gaul, who declared, “Naevia lives!”

As Agron had given no such indication, there remained but one other source: Nasir.

The Gaul confirmed it to all: “The slaver told them not of her death, but of her suffering in the mines!”

Fists clenched and teeth bared, Agron looked up and across the courtyard, seeking out those dark eyes in accusation.  But when Nasir refused to hold his gaze -- when he turned away as if shamed -- Agron was cast adrift, his sure footing shifting as if he stood upon loose sand.

He acted quickly to regain it.  “An equal fate!”

Spartacus demanded, “Why would you bear false tongue when a life hangs in the balance?”

“What of our lives?” Agron returned, shoving Donar’s restraining weight aside.  “What of _****our****_  lives?”  What of men whose heart still beat within chest?  What of men who had purpose and passion for life?  What of men like Agron?  What of Nasir?  “Crixus has no thought toward any but Naevia and would see us _****all****_  meet our end in foolish attempt on the mines!”

The Gaul did not deny it.

Reaching for the Thracian’s arm, Agron entreated, “I did what needed to be done, Spartacus.  You must see this.”

Spartacus looked from Agron to the Gaul.  “Lie,” he summarized slowly, “for the greater good.”

Agron stood taller, unashamed of his actions, and waited for Spartacus to see reason.

The blow was sudden, fist crashing against Agron’s mouth, cutting his lip and loosening a brief spray of blood.

“One that would never have passed lips,” Spartacus roared, “had it been your brother Duro in her place!”

Agron spat blood into the reeds and forced his aching head to rise.  He would stand for what he had done.  He would stand and Spartacus would admit that they were too late to save Naevia, that making attempt would be foolhardy, that there was no choice but to press onward.  Yes, it was fucking infuriating that they had searched so long in vain, but surely Spartacus would--

“I stand with Crixus,” Spartacus declared, “and will see Naevia from bondage.”

With those few words, Agron lost all hope of maintaining the position he’d earned.  The firm ground he’d gained caved beneath feet like flesh from a rotting corpse.  He could do nothing as the faith and trust he’d been given by Spartacus was yanked away.

One lie.  One blow.  One vow.  Separately, they would have changed nothing, but their culmination sent Agron tumbling again into the aimless fury of defeat.  Defeat much like that forced upon him in the wake of Duro’s parting words: _****“** **I save you this time, brother.”****  _ Such defeat Agron refused to bear again.

Nor would he fucking die for pointless endeavor.  Agron had yet reason to live and, therefore, he had but one course left to him: Vesuvius.  He had given his word to all that they would seek shelter there.  He could not -- _****would not****_  -- revoke his pledge to Nasir and the others.  He would see them to safety.  As he had vowed.  If Spartacus refused to heed fucking sense, so be it.

“I move for Vesuvius,” Agron announced.  “Those that would live… join me.”

Most moved to follow.  Though Agron did not break words on it with him, he counted Nasir among them.

The Syrian man was silent as he accompanied Agron and Donar in making one final sweep of the villa.  Words sizzled upon Agron’s tongue, but he did not utter them.  There was little point; the majority had proven to favor his endeavor.

Their path took them back to the overgrown courtyard where Agron had abandoned his belongings.  He paused in the corridor and shook his head at the sight of so many men donning the rags of condemned slaves, eager to get themselves killed.

“Seek us out at Vesuvius,” Agron invited Spartacus, “if you live.”

Agron turned away to gather his things, and Nasir chose that moment to break words.  But it was not toward Agron he directed them: “I accompanied my dominus to the mines once.  I may be of some aid.”

_****I may be of some aid.** ** _

_****I may be of some aid.** ** _

_****I may be of some aid.** ** _

“Well received,” the shit-eating Gaul accepted.

Fuck the gods.

Nasir did not stand with Agron.

No, the contrary Syrian had just offered assistance in the mines.  He offered to fucking die.

When Agron had learned of Batiatus’ intent to divide him and Duro in the arena and Spartacus had confessed inability to sway their dominus’ decision, Agron’s heart had fallen into his belly to simmer and fester and rage absent hope.  This moment -- hearing Nasir’s quiet pledge of aid to doomed effort -- was worse yet.

Agron lifted pack to shoulder with motion absent both thought and strength, his gaze fixed upon the little man’s back.

Nasir was offering to--

The Syrian man turned toward Agron, a faint smile on his lips and fire in his gaze.  The decision had been made and Nasir’s mind was set.  Unlike Duro, this man would not be brought to heel even for the sake of his own safety, a concern which Agron would happily address.  No, Nasir would choose his own path, knowing the risks in full and embracing his destiny.

It was the bravest thing Agron had ever witnessed.

And he was chagrined at being so outmaneuvered.  He had sorely underestimated Nasir.

Agron huffed, smarting from the snub.  “Fucking Syrians.”

Nasir hummed a soft note of humor, gaze lowering, and Agron felt the warmth of it upon every part of him.

Agron burned as he marched away.  Purpose and pain propelled his steps, allowing him only a single backward glance as Mira arrived to announce all was prepared for their foolish quest.

Foolish.  They were all fucking fools.

That Agron no longer stood among them -- no longer stood with Spartacus -- called forth the specter of Duro in Agron’s arms and the weight of his sacrifice.  His brother had committed intent and given his life for Spartacus’ cause, and so Agron had vowed himself to it as well lest it all be for naught, but Agron could _****not****  _follow Spartacus and that fucking Gaul in their madness.  To abandon all gains and all hope of bleeding Rome…!

In throwing away their own lives, they dismissed Duro’s.

Anger pushed Agron toward Vesuvius, but as his feet crossed unclaimed countryside toward destination, he found his thoughts turning upon the image of Nasir and that fire in his dark eyes.  The peace he had gained in speaking truth.  The smile he’d offered when Agron had not tried to dissuade him from his choice to accompany Spartacus and the fucking Gaul.

Nasir had chosen his path just as any free man ought.

However, that had not been the reason for Agron’s acceptance of choice.

The first stirrings of genuine shame took hold in Agron; he had bitten back protest because he’d had no desire to earn yet another defeat under the gaze of those fucking Gauls and Spartacus.  Out of pride, he had not even made fucking attempt.

Would his words have swayed Nasir?  For a brief moment, he imagined they may have.  Though Nasir had as yet not reached out a hand to Agron, Nasir had been ever at his side.  Both accepting and choosing his company over that of others’ when Agron was free of duties.  Nasir’s presence had proved that he favored Agron with companionship and trusted him above all the other warriors... perhaps even Spartacus… but then, many demands were placed upon Spartacus.  Not so many had weighed Agron, who had never turned away from Nasir when the man made approach to break words or share company.

Agron counted each moment shared.  Days of trust layered one upon the other.

Yet Nasir had turned from him.

Agron’s irate confusion broke under icy realization: Nasir had trusted Agron and Agron had forced false words upon him absent choice.

Not unlike a fucking Roman.

Rage returned.  It shadowed Agron as would a familiar companion.  His mouth twisted into a sneering frown and his jaw set as he forged onward through the forest.

Yet every step taken in direction of Vesuvius made his knees twitch and quake as if they were composed of naught but water.  By dusk, his stubborn frustration no longer held enough strength to keep him upright.

He paused to lean against a nearby tree, letting Donar move ahead.  His palm pressed to bark and Agron recalled the smoothness of Nasir’s skin beneath hand, the heat of neck against palm, the soft whisper of dark hair over fingers.  Agron had never felt silk before, not even in the villas they had taken during the past weeks.  He held no interest in such Roman shit.  Despite that, he doubted silk would ever rival the feel of Nasir’s unbound hair upon skin.

“Fuck the gods,” he bit out, earning a questioning look from one of the newly freed women.  From which villa he could not recall.  It was of no concern.  Neither was Agron’s pride.

Nasir was.

He should not have left him to fucking hopeless quest of delivering Naevia from the mines.  Agron did not know if he should have declared intent to aid him or if he should have fallen upon knee to beg Nasir to rescind offer, but it made no difference.  Agron had let pride force him from Nasir’s side while Spartacus was bound by vow to aid the fucking Gaul and the fucking Gaul cared for naught but his woman.  There was no one to stand solely with Nasir.

That could have been Agron’s place.  It should have been his place, but he’d relinquished it without a fight.

No fucking longer.

Night was falling.  He ordered a halt and encouraged tired bodies to sleep.  Then he sought out Donar.

“I set foot to path toward the mines.”

Donar gawped at him.  “Say that nonsense one more fucking time.”

“Romans will be in pursuit of Spartacus.”  As the words fell from his lips, Agron found within himself the unshaken resolve to aid Spartacus.  Duro had pledged himself to the man, after all.  As had Agron.  He would honor that vow… if it were not already too late.  Agron spoke firmly, “I would clear a path for escape.”

“If any escaped at all.”

Agron’s jaw clenched.  He forced a deep breath.  Much like the evening he had first approached Nasir and dared to release a small measure of his own pain only to find heart pierced by snide barb -- just as then, Agron did not move to strike, though it was a near thing.  “Then keep to fucking course.  I require no aid.”

“Hold, you fucking fool.”  Donar glanced in the direction of the mines, considering both route and risk.  “I will gather the men.”

Agron did likewise and then presented his intent of turning back while the freed men and women pressed onward.  The trail of so many feet would not be hard to rediscover once the group from the mines was found.

“And if attempt failed and Spartacus has fallen?” Donar asked quietly.

Agron snarled, “Then we turn to hunting Roman shit.”

On that point, no one could find fault.

They traveled quietly through the night.  Every snap of twig or rustle of dry leaves underfoot tempted Agron to disregard caution and quicken his steps.

They came upon blood and bodies before dawn and Agron searched each face carefully, even those wearing Roman uniform just to be certain that neither Spartacus nor Nasir were among those forever lost.

Liscus and Fortis were.

Donar did not break words regarding the fate of the bodies.  No one did.  Roman shits had been here once and more would soon descend to retrieve the rotting corpses of the fallen fucks.  There was no time for funeral rites.

Agron made no attempt to stop the men from collecting weapons, coin, water skins, and cloaks.  Agron himself pushed ahead, scouting.  Catching up with Agron, Donar tossed one of the cloaks to him.  He wedged it roughly beneath sword belt over shoulder, and they pressed onward, following the trail of brush trampled beneath Roman feet.  As mist rose and glow of sunrise seeped into the forest, a shout went up.  Figures had been spotted.

Absent concern for safety, Agron ran forward.  Two forms ahead.  One tall and one short.  Spartacus and Nasir?

The first was Spartacus, but the second was Mira.  Both Agron’s burgeoning smile and relieved exhalation halted at the sight of weary form slumped against a tree at their backs.  Head bowed to chest, black hair curling gently over brow in sweaty clumps: Nasir.

The woman who crouched beside him could only be Naevia.  Glad that Spartacus yet lived, Agron grasped his shoulder in passing greeting, but he did not stop, his feet carrying him swiftly to Nasir.  Upon bended knee, he scanned the man’s form, finding skin so pale as to have been kissed by death.

“Nasir?” he breathed, fear unlike anything he had ever known gripping his entire being.  Agron reached for the man’s chin, tilting his head up even as he further hunched his shoulders, eager to peer into the man’s face and take measure of Nasir’s state with own eyes.  

Upon Agron’s fingers, Nasir’s skin was cold.  Chilled.  His head heavy absent awareness.

Agron’s heart stopped beating.

But then those dark eyes opened.  The little man’s gaze was dazed with pain and his eyelids drooped with exhaustion, but soft lips curved upward in the faintest of smiles.

Agron had no words to break.  No tongue to speak them.  No air to form them.  He had only a single will that swelled within chest, choked throat, and clenched jaw tightly: _****you must live.****_

Nasir was alive but far from safe.  The only one vaguely knowledgeable of the treatment of wounds -- a matronly woman called Camilla -- had remained with the freed men and women.  They had much ground to cover.

Drawing in breath again, Agron whispered, “Take rest now.”

His thumb caressed Nasir’s cheek and lashes descended to conceal dark eyes once more.  Lowering Nasir’s chin and turning to Naevia, he asked tightly, “His wounds?”

“Sealed with fire,” she replied, casting her eyes upon the long slit in the slaver’s tunic.

Agron crouched down further to gently part the remnants of the garment and gape at the injury.  That Nasir still lived was surely the will of the gods.  Though, which ones Agron could not say.  Not those that the Roman shits called upon, surely.

Donar appeared at his side with a pair of water skins.  One he pressed into Naevia’s hands.  The other he lifted meaningfully in Nasir’s direction.  “Wake him.  Tilt his head back.”

Agron complied, coaxing Nasir to stir with the promise of water.  Donar held the skin while Agron supported Nasir’s jaw.

When Nasir made a soft noise of protest, Agron pushed both the mouth of the skin and Donar’s hovering hands away.

“Must piss,” Nasir breathed.

Agron grinned.  “Gratitude.”

Nasir blinked, uncomprehending.

“For breaking words rather than holding tongue despite action.”

The weak smile returned.  “I am no dog.”

Agron and Donar both chuckled.

Agron then looked to Donar and, with a glance toward Naevia and a jerk of his chin, Agron requested they both take their fucking leave.  Agron shifted Nasir’s arms to his shoulders and placed his own hands carefully, lifting the man onto his knees.  Gasping for breath, Nasir’s forehead -- heated with early fever -- fell against Agron’s neck and Agron felt each deliberate, hot, panting breath against bare chest.

He worked blindly to locate and loosen the ties upon the half-trousers.  Reaching bare skin, Agron shifted to block view of others.  He yanked his own trailing cloak aside and quickly swept the strewn leaves between their bodies away to expose a shallow hollow of earth.

Parting Nasir’s loosened clothing and drawing out his cock, Agron nudged Nasir’s temple with his nose.  “Piss,” he ordered and, with a soft moan, Nasir complied.

Agron held the man upright with an arm across his shoulders, catching Mira’s eye as she turned toward the sound.  Her eyes widened with disbelief and her insult from weeks past echoed between them.  She was clearly exhausted, but her smile was giddy.  Agron’s own mouth twitched at the irony.

At least Nasir did not splash him overly much.

Once Nasir’s bladder emptied, Agron resettled his cock and tugged the waist of the pants into position, tying the string quickly.

Mindful of the others some paces away, Agron kept his voice low.  “Into my arms now, little man.”

An irritated grunt only made Agron smile wider.  He shifted and leaned Nasir’s right side against his chest, settling lolling head upon what cushion the Roman cloak gathered over Agron’s shoulder provided.  Then Agron slid arms beneath the man’s shoulders and knees and pushed to his feet.  With the last of his strength, Nasir tucked arms up onto chest, hands beneath chin to avoid contact with wound.

A wound sealed with fire.

The brand upon Agron’s right forearm burned anew beneath Nasir’s knees.

Nasir was a member of the brotherhood now.  Position well-earned.

Agron could not fight against sudden memory of Duro.  The obnoxious shit had whined about the pain on his forearm for weeks.  “I bear the same mark, brother,” Agron had teased him, “without pissing about it!”

Agron had no doubt that Nasir would withstand the pain in a far different manner.  In fact, he already had.  Rather than pissing about it, he had simply pissed on Agron.

Wary of jarring Nasir from much needed rest, Agron bit back his laughter, catching lip beneath teeth even as he grinned.  Spartacus noticed, arching a tired brow in question.

Agron just shook his head.  He doubted anyone would appreciate the humor.  Except for Duro.

Agron’s smile faded as he recalled his brother’s infectious giggle, gone from this world.  The charming smile that would never win over a girl to wife.  Hands that would never build a house, or hold a babe.  Nieces and nephews that Agron would never tickle or heft up onto his shoulders or carve wooden trinkets for.  He would never listen to Duro complain about his stubborn wife who demanded he act his fucking age.

Agron would never tell -- and re-tell at his brother’s hearthside over cups of warm beer -- this story about fire-brands and pissing.

In that moment, he missed Duro so much he feared his chest would split open from the agony, but Nasir’s weight held him steady… and not for the first time.

When Agron’s smile returned, it was much softer than previously.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, FuckinGauls, for reminding me that Agron does indeed drool very obviously at Nasir during the “You favor clever strategy!” scene.


	4. Worthy of Risk

 

The stretcher was crudely made, but it served its purpose.  Far better than the Roman cloak that had required four pairs of hands to hold taut and steady; once they had gained distance from the sites of battle and steady pace had been of less risk, Spartacus had insisted Agron relinquish his charge: “See burden shared so that you have strength to lift sword.”

Nasir had not stirred as he’d been laid upon the red wool and conveyed, though a crease upon brow spoke of pain.  They had caught up to the freed men and women after midday.  Nasir now rested, wound cleaned and bandaged hastily by Camilla.

Agron had readily taken a shift carrying the stretcher but had quickly learned that doing so required complete attention upon task lest Agron jar the grip of the man at opposite end.  As his height and long stride was unmatched by the freed man at stretcher’s foot, the endeavor was highly uncomfortable.

Donar could only bear to watch his mincing steps for half a league before finding a replacement.

“We may need your sword arm free.”

It was a valid point.  And with hands free, Agron was able to nudge the dark, curling strands of hair back from Nasir’s closed eyes, gauging fever with touch upon brow.  Though warm yet, true danger was not upon him.

“Let him rest, Agron,” Donar chastised him, flicking his ear in the same manner Agron, drunk on his own self-importance, had done to Donar in moment of giddy anticipation for the trek to Vesuvius.  Before Nasir had confessed the truth of Naevia’s whereabouts to the Gaul.  Agron was still unclear on events that had brought about that conversation.

Donar added, “Spartacus would have you step to front while I relieve Lydon.”

Agron nodded, but paused briefly to speak to the man who had taken up the burden of steadying the head of the stretcher.  “Gratitude,” he offered.

The man returned his nod.  “None required.  Tibe--er, Nasir, has shown me much kindness over the years.  This is but a small token to pay a portion of my debt.”

Agron hesitated to follow Donar, lifting his hand in request for one moment’s pause.  Turning to the man whose hands now conveyed Nasir, Agron spoke, “Fever has set in.  Send word to Camilla if condition worsens.”

Donar rolled his eyes and set off to take up duty.

Agron lingered yet to receive the freed man’s response.

“Of course.”

With one last glance at Nasir, Agron moved at a steady run toward the front of the group, slowing to match pace with Spartacus.

As Agron approached his side, he did not hesitate to break words or rest hand upon the man’s shoulder, answering the Thracian’s brief smile of greeting: “We should not have torn our forces.  If we had been with you at the mines--”

Spartacus interrupted Agron’s laments firmly, “Even more would lay dead within its tunnels.”

This was likely true.  The limited dimensions of the slaver’s wagon alone had forced many ready volunteers to part ways with the Gaul.  A blessing for the sake of their forces.  They truly needed every able-bodied warrior.

Still, that did not excuse the pride that had blinded Agron to the will of his own heart.  He had been a fucking moron to turn away from Spartacus and Nasir.

Though Agron had not offered apologies as such -- he doubted there existed apologies sincere enough to mend the error -- he was genuine in his regret.  Spartacus glanced his way and Agron made no effort to conceal his feelings on the matter.

“Mistakes were made on both sides,” Spartacus continued.  “Let us place them behind us or risk finding them repeated.”

The thought of Nasir enduring yet more pain when Agron could have lent aid was unbearable.  He heeded Spartacus’ words; imagining another misadventure like the one to the mines would not aid in guiding Nasir to health or their forces to safety.  They walked for a distance in silence, Agron ever glancing back when he attained the crest of a rise to check Nasir’s progress.

And also to ensure that the flash of a Roman-red cloak was not about to take them by surprise.

When Agron faced forward again, he was taken aback by a sly grin on Spartacus’ face.  “Would that you had seen Nasir play his part at the mines.”

Agron felt a smile of his own.  “He did well then?”

Spartacus repeated the words that the little man had snarled at Rhaskos -- “Do I pay coin to sit upon ass?  See them from the fucking wagon!” -- and his undeniable courage standing alone before the sick fuck of an overseer to explain the delay of delivery.  Then, as they’d waited for Mira to do her part -- an act that gained both Agron’s gratitude for the woman’s clever timing, distracting the shit when Nasir had floundered, and Agron’s admiration for her bravery as she risked much absent aid to learn Naevia’s location -- Nasir had shadowed the guards, reacting the very instant that one man had recognized Spartacus, lunging to clamp hand over nose and mouth until the worthless shit could be dragged aside by one of the Gaul’s men and his blood spilled.

Agron shook his head, truly amazed and humbled.  “When we took the villa--”  And Spartacus had irritatingly preached on the true value of every man.  “--I doubted his worth in error.”

“Even I had not expected so much.”

And the little man had yet more training ahead.  What additional challenges might he rise to conquer when even greater means were at his disposal?  Thrill of anticipation lifted Agron’s spirits.  Unexpected but welcome.

“Gratitude for sealing his wound,” Agron blurted.

Spartacus nodded.  “It was Naevia’s memory of Crixus’ injuries from the battle with Theokoles -- each wound having been sealed by fire -- that set us to purpose.”

“And gave Nasir chance of survival.”

“He lost much blood.  I fear he would have succumbed before you could set eyes upon him again had she not given memory voice.”

Agron’s hands curled into fists against a sudden and inexplicable chill.

A soft bird call twittered through the trees.  Spartacus lifted his arm in signal for all to halt.  Agron braced himself.  He would not be moved from his place between Nasir and whatever threat loomed beyond the next rise.

Donar, Fulco, and Lydon appeared.  Donar reported, “We have found something.”

Indeed they had.  A genuine structure amid the wilderness, set in a clearing with the great mountain at its rear.

Agron’s relief washed terse words from lips: “Finally, gods show fucking favor.”

The temple appeared abandoned; it was obviously in disrepair, but Agron was not discouraged.  “A roof over our heads,” he declared gladly.  Casting his gaze upward to the sky visible between the rotting rafters, he amended, “Well, mostly.”

He was unaware of chewing the inside of his cheek in thought as he considered the labor required to make necessary repairs--

“Take rest,” Spartacus said.  “Consider future.”

“There holds none for you,” a voice called out, “in my fucking temple!”

Ah, the ruins were _****not****_  abandoned.  A problem not without swift remedy; a lone Roman, long of years, who wielded bow and arrow stood between them and the shelter that Nasir badly needed.  As the standoff endured, Agron spoke to remind all of the necessity for action, “Spartacus…”

Yet it was the sound of his name that gained the Roman’s happy surrender and an invitation within, followed by an offer of wine that Agron denied Spartacus with a palm over the mouth of the jug.  They knew nothing of this Roman shit.  Agron may not have stood beside the Thracian at the mines, but he would be struck dead before failing to do so now.

“You would trust wine and words from a Roman shit?”

The Roman shit retorted, “And what are you?  A Gaul by your lack of manners.”

“I am no fucking Gaul!  I am Agron from the lands east of the Rhine.”

“And I am Lucius, a Roman of the Caelian Clan.  Pleasure to make fucking acquaintance.”  Despite the irritable words, the man’s tale of how he’d come to this desolate poverty was not so dissimilar to many who had been recently liberated by Spartacus.  Agron was unsurprised to learn that Lucius’ fellow Romans had forced his demise.  Agron had long ago learned that the fucks were without honor.

This Lucius, however, seemed genuine in his willingness to lend aid.  As Spartacus grasped the arm offered in friendship, Agron complained wryly, “You could not have made speech before swallowing the last of the wine?”

Lucius laughed and Agron relaxed against the pillar at his back, chuckling.

It was then that Lucius made mention of rumors rampant in the marketplace, and they learned of men captured in the mines.  Men who were to soon meet their end in the arena at Capua.  Men who included the Undefeated fucking Gaul.

“Crixus!  He yet lives?”

Agron turned toward Naevia, struck dumb at the hope shining in her face where before he had glimpsed only numbness.  Her will to live restored at the mere thought of her lover’s survival.

Helplessly, Agron thought of Nasir.

Lucius shared what news he had heard on the streets of nearby Neapolis and when Spartacus withdrew from conversation, a contemplative frown upon his brow, Agron made excuse to leave.  “I will see everyone settled,” he offered.

Spartacus gave a nod and Agron asked of their host, “Is there a room for our medica Camilla?  We have wounded.”

The task of seeing to the arriving men and women allowed Agron yet another glimpse of Nasir and a quick press of palm to brow.  Agron frowned at the waves of burning heat now pushing against his skin.  He directed the stretcher bearers to the room Lucius had assured him would be most suitable for an infirmary, saw Nasir placed gently upon a high platform piled with furs that Lucius had not yet traded for goods, and sent the men to locate Camilla and see her to Nasir’s side.

Agron shrugged out of his cloak, wetting the top of the shoulder with the water he still carried, and pressed the cool cloth to Nasir’s brow and cheeks.  “Tests of courage and a brand made by fire,” he murmured, “but I suspect I have not yet seen the true measure of your strength.”

Nasir did not answer him.

Naevia did.  “He made no sound when it was done.”

Her gaze dropped to the bandage covering the sealed wound and Agron stood at a loss for words.

“The others would have your aid,” she continued.  “I will remain with him to assist Camilla.”

He nodded, but lingered at bedside, slowly patting Nasir’s face with cool, damp cloth one more time.  The sound of a shuffling gait followed by lighter steps caught Agron’s attention; Camilla and those she had conscripted to carry needed supplies were approaching.

Stepping back with reluctance, Agron vowed, “I will return when the others have been seen to.”

He passed Camilla in the corridor, bowing his head in deference to her skill.  She patted his arm, making no promises regarding Nasir’s recovery.  She had already assured him that she would tend to him so long as Nasir drew breath.

It was nightfall before Agron was able to match action to words spoken to Naevia.

Wary of disturbing Nasir’s rest, he stepped silently over the threshold.  Camilla was gently bathing Nasir’s brow while Naevia cleaned the unbroken skin surrounding the wound itself, drawing away the sweat from finding its way into vulnerable flesh.  Nasir’s eyes remained closed, but he yet breathed.

Overcome with gratitude for everything Naevia had done and was yet doing for Nasir, he spoke, “I am in your debt.”

She startled, turning to face him.  

He explained, “Spartacus told me what you have done for Nasir.  If it were not for you--”

“It is because of me that he lies near death,” she replied.

All breath left Agron’s body.  Would that he had not waited until nightfall to turn toward the fucking mines!  Had he reached Nasir sooner, before fucking Roman shit had landed blow--!

Naevia chastised, “They never should have come to the mines.”

Shame forced words of justification from his mouth: “I did what I could to stop them.”

“Would that you had done more,” Naevia bit out, renewing Agron’s misery.  Her words were no less accurate for being blindly spoken; of his foolish pride, she could not possibly have knowledge.

“Naevia…” he began, unable to give voice to further utterance.

“The hope of seeing Crixus again was all that kept me alive.”

Agron recalled the warmth of Nasir’s head against his neck as they had knelt together in the forest, the Syrian man’s arms limply circling his shoulders.  Agron would cling to that show of trust for the remainder of his days even if Nasir awoke from fever despising Agron for his attempts to bind and bend Nasir’s will.  Agron would cling to it _****especially****_  if the trust between them lay broken.

The hope of regaining it was all that allowed Agron to yet draw breath.

“Each day,” Naevia confessed, words emerging from the tight grip of agony, “I begged the gods to see him to my arms.  And this is how they fucking answer?  By allowing his touch, only to be ripped from it forever!”

Uncertainty.  It had the power to slowly bleed a man to death in spirit.  Agron despised uncertainty.  All those dark hours of night as he’d fought the urge to run, moving ever closer to the mines absent any news or sign of Spartacus and Nasir, not knowing if the Syrian man yet lived…

Where swords and spears and axes had not held the power to weaken his knees with fear, uncertainty had nearly driven Agron to madness.

Now Naevia faced similar torment.  Her Gaul may yet draw breath, but only for one more day.  Such pain.  Her thin body thrummed with it.  Agron would only ever wish that agony upon Roman shit.

Stepping closer, he found words: “He would not be swayed from attempt.  None of them would.”

And neither would Agron.  He would not be swayed from attempt to remake the bridge between himself and Nasir.  Nothing would stop him.

“I wish Lucretia had taken my life,” Naevia despaired, turning away, dark eyes filled with tears.  “Then Crixus would not have had to sacrifice his for something soiled and ruined.”

_****Soiled and ruined.** ** _

Agron recalled that Naevia had been body slave to Lucretia.  Nasir had also been body slave to his dominus, a man whose name Agron had given no shit to learning.  Though Naevia’s torment had begun even before she’d been put to cart, the duration of her suffering must have been shorter than Nasir’s in comparison.  To the intensity of her pain, Agron could not give an estimate.  Neither could he weigh Nasir’s.  But neither had escaped Roman cruelty despite the protection their elevated positions should have afforded.

Naevia’s tears fell in silence.

Would Nasir weep these same tears for all that had been taken from him by the Romans?  Agron’s chest tore open.  Gaped wide and raw.  Caught between formless rage and overwhelming grief, Agron remained silent.

What he might have said if Mira had not called him to Spartacus’ side, Agron did not know.  It was not even a relief to part company.  Pain trotted at his heels.

He glimpsed activity beyond the temple steps as everyone saw to tasks for the coming night.  Spartacus sat, spinning a gladius upon its point, and looked up when Mira and Agron drew near.

“Nasir?” he inquired and Agron needed a moment to push through his own fear and hope and resolution and fucking uncertainty.

“He yet fights.”

“As do we all,” Mira remarked, calling forth Agron’s ire.  That she dared to diminish Nasir’s bravery and sacrifice--!

“The Romans would have it believed otherwise,” Spartacus spoke, refocusing Agron’s swelling anger.  “Lucius tells of spreading word that we are all but defeated.”

Fucking Romans.  Agron shook his head.  “Let them come, and find assumption false.”

Mira tensed, drawing Agron’s glare.

Spartacus took no notice of the unease between them.  He said, “I would not wait for such a day.  Nor see our brothers fall in the arena.”

This was more than sufficient to pull Agron’s gaze from Mira.  “You would lay attack on the arena.”

It was not so much a question as a statement of something contrary to good sense itself.  Spartacus might as well have said he would bestow soft kisses upon steaming piles of shit and whispers of love upon leaky buckets of piss.

Mira pointed to the obvious lack of warriors needed for such a maneuver, but Spartacus, the contrary shit, argued, “They would never think us to make attempt.”

A laugh burbled up Agron’s throat.  “For good fucking reason.”

“Who is more familiar with the arena than men who have fought upon its sands?” Spartacus entreated and Agron felt resistance wane.  Even his irritation at Mira faded.

He sighed.

Resolve hardening, Agron took a step closer to Spartacus, to mad plan, to fate, to doom itself.  Knowing how Naevia suffered, aware of how great a debt he owed for her quick suggestion that had seen Nasir to another dawn, Agron committed himself to insane fucking scheme: “What are your thoughts?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I added a bit of dialog into existing scenes so that Spartacus can fill Agron in on all the things. (Also, I really like writing quiet moments between Spartacus and Agron. I think Spartacus is one of the very few people in the world that Agron can even feel comfortable having a peaceful moment with.)
> 
> EDIT: Regarding the line "Agron's attempts to bind and bend Nasir's will" -- OK, this is Agron's POV and as he can't imagine what other reason Nasir would have had for keeping the secret in the first place (which we know (and Agron also knows) Nasir struggles with and eventually spills the beans on), Agron assumes that Nasir kept his mouth shut for as long as he did simply because Agron wanted him to. (In a previous discussion with FuckinGauls on Chapter 3, we determined that Nasir had reasons independent of Agron's opinions for not telling everyone that Naevia was in the mines. First of all, as a body slave, Nasir would understand the concept of "the greater good" and he might HATE it, but he'd UNDERSTAND it. Also, Nasir has seen the mines for himself and he Knows it would be a suicide mission that has a 99.9% chance of failing completely.) Since Agron isn't inside Nasir's head, he doesn't know what Nasir had been thinking, so he just blames himself. That's a go-to, knee-jerk reaction for a lot of people when someone they care about gets hurt and there MIGHT have been something they could have done to prevent it. Am I right?
> 
> Also, I've embellished on the interaction between Agron and Mira. Given that Nasir still isn't "out of the woods" yet and Agron is very aware that the man could still die, I think he'd be a bit on edge and would easily take offense at Mira being all "let's keep it in perspective, OK, guys? The rebellion doesn't revolve around Nasir." (Or does it?) (^_~) Anyway, Agron respects Mira's strength, yes, but that doesn't mean he appreciates every single one of her opinions. The "As do we all" struck me as something that would irk Agron.
> 
> The chapter title is "Worthy of Risk" but I'm not 100% thrilled with it because there are several references to debt owed... especially the debt Agron believes he owes Naevia. What are your thoughts?
> 
> EDIT: I almost forgot to mention! Agron doesn't only volunteer to save Crixus because of the fact that Naevia helped save Nasir's life and Nasir had nearly given his life to rescue her (because I think Agron would want to honor that sacrifice the same way he honors Duro's by sticking with Spartacus). Agron is more determined than ever to be the right-hand man that Spartacus needs him to be and when it becomes clear that Spartacus is not going to change his mind about taking on the entire effing arena, Agron resigns himself to going with him. (At least he'll have the chance to kill some Romans, eh?) Maybe he doesn't put up as much of a fight about it because (1) he might get to kill some Romans and (2) he owes Naevia Big Time, but Agron was never gonna let Spartacus leave without him AGAIN.
> 
> EDIT: Oh! And this line -- “Let them come, and find assumption false.” -- I can so see Agron just chomping at the bit for the chance to exorcise some of his frustration at feeling helpless with regards to Nasir's injuries and also he's pissed at himself for dividing their forces, so spilling a little (or a LOT) of Roman blood sounds like just the thing to help him Deal. And how convenient it would be if the enemy came to him rather than Agron having to hunt them down himself, yeah?


	5. Debts Paid

 

The plan was simple at first look.  Its essence, however, rested on timing and the procurement of necessary items.  Items that could not be purchased in quantity lest they draw attention.  They would have to be stolen.

Mira had drawn a map from her memory of the city that Agron now contemplated with Donar, sharing words for purpose of acquiring as many jars of pitch as their brothers-in-arms could carry into the arena unseen.  “We will arrive either before dawn or after,” Agron noted wearily.  “We must be prepared for both.”

Donar nodded.  They had already decided on the method of theft should they be able to take advantage of cover of night.  An early morning raid ran the risk of witnesses and lack of crowded streets in which to disappear.  As such, an alternate strategy would be wise.

Agron was peripherally aware of Naevia’s approach.  Word had reached her of their plans and the hope in her voice was inescapable of notice: “Is such a thing possible?”

“I would see it so,” Spartacus assured her, “or fall with Crixus in the arena.”

“If the gods yet care, may they speed your return.”

And then a new voice -- one Agron had been waiting to hear -- captured his complete attention.  “Where do we go?”

“Nasir!” Agron called, abandoning Donar and reaching the Syrian man’s side in six long strides.  Need to ensure that this vision was neither shade nor trick of wishful thoughts impelled Agron to place his hand upon Nasir’s neck.  The flesh was still hot, but fever had broken.

Nasir was alive -- standing upon his own feet and under his own strength -- Nasir would _****live.****_   All else fell to lesser importance.

In his elation, Agron’s grin stretched wider and Nasir gifted him with a lingering smile warm with fond memory.  Perhaps all was not lost between them.  That Nasir allowed Agron’s touch to linger spoke of some trust yet remaining.  The hope for more seared almost as badly as receiving the mark of Batiatus had.  At the memory of fire-brightened steel upon flesh, Agron’s gaze fell to the bandage; Nasir’s right arm held it tight against his side.

Blinking limp strands of hair from his eyes, Nasir informed Spartacus, voice strengthened by purpose and teeth gritted against pain of body, “Give me a sword.  I would join you.”

Agron’s brash words proved true; Nasir’s full strength was yet untested.  Now that the man had been given a glimpse of his potential, Agron doubted that any obstacle would be insurmountable.

“I would have you rest yet a while longer,” Spartacus told the persistent little man.  Agron could hear humor in the Thracian’s tone, but from Nasir’s expression it was clear that no true offense was taken.  Though the Syrian man’s clear disappointment and frustration were understandable.

Agron resettled his hand, drawing Nasir’s attention back to him.  “This time you stay and I go,” he quietly imparted.  It was a light jest -- Agron would not dare cite mere weakness of body for Nasir remaining at the temple! -- and Nasir breathed a soft chuckle.

Dark eyes shimmered with humor and Agron, whose hand still rested against warm skin and pulsing vein, was entranced.  Those lips shaped a smile of such beauty as to steal a man’s breath…

Drawn in, Agron felt no hesitation in crossing the bridge between them, marveling that it yet remained, hoping it might yet strengthen, and gently pressed a kiss to Nasir’s lips.  He paused for but a moment, astounded by the heat of skin, the softness of slackening lips, and the teasing prickle of beard stubble, before he retreated to await response.  Agron did not straighten.  He remained hunched down, their gazes level.  On equal footing.

Nasir searched Agron’s expression, gaze flickering once with doubt.  Agron held to intent, hiding nothing of his regard, and slowly drew calming breath.

And then Nasir’s mouth stretched into a new smile.  Hesitant at first, wobbling a bit, but as Agron stood fast his reward was a grin of genuine pleasure.

The joy was exquisite, the relief immediate.

However, there was so much yet to say… and no time to give voice to necessary words.

“We must move,” Spartacus announced to Agron’s dismay.

But he held a moment longer, speaking quietly as packs were shouldered and weapons inspected, “When I return, you will have apologies in full.  I should not have bid you to act against heart.  Nor should I have denied mine.”

Nasir’s smile widened further.  “I look forward to your return.”

Agron beamed.

Nasir breathed, “Go.  Lest I convince Spartacus I am fit to take your place.”

Agron chuckled, caressed Nasir’s cheek, and then made himself ready for travel.

He joined Spartacus at the top of the temple stairs for parting words to the freed men and women.  Parting and also _****reproaching****_  words.  Agron could not hold head high when Spartacus spoke of suffering wounds and loss and of being divided.  He would owe Nasir an apology of considerably better quality upon his return, but he would be damned if he extended apologies to the fucking Gaul.  Aiding in the man’s rescue from the arena would have to stand in their stead.

Rousing words were followed by voices lifted in roaring cheers.  Agron stole one more moment to touch Nasir’s shoulder in farewell.

“Successful venture, swift return,” Nasir bid him, and Agron forced his feet to path, entrusting Nasir to the support of Naevia’s arm.  He took his place among those bound for Capua with yet another backward glance.  Though Nasir was in need of rest, he resisted Naevia’s urging, remaining at the top of the stairs and smiling until Agron turned the corner and focused all intent toward repayment of debt.

“Moonlight reflects off of grin,” Donar grumbled.

Agron laughed quietly.

Spartacus’ hand clamped around his shoulder.  “It is good to see joy restored.”

It was good to _****feel****_  joy restored.

“Thank the fucking gods the little man woke before departure,” Donar continued.  “You’ve been a sour shit.”

“Close mouth,” Agron ordered absent indignation.

Mira snorted a laugh.  Spartacus shook his head in bemusement.  They were all fucking amused.  Agron gave no shit.

Would that his new-found elation could sustain body indefinitely, but after two days of only minimal rest, the toll was beginning to present itself.  Agron wondered if he would ever be permitted a full night’s sleep.  He kept pace by the length of his pride as they hurried through the night.  There was no time to rest if they were to gain entry to the arena before the executions began.  Before that fucking Gaul fell and Agron’s debt to Naevia lay forever unpaid.

Fuck the gods.  Agron could sleep when he was dead.

It was a possibility that grew with increasing appeal as he disrobed to his subligaria and waded into the rot and filth spewing from the arena sewer drain.  Memory of feet sunk ankle-deep in stinging muck and eyes squeezed shut against inescapable stench set his stomach rolling.  If there had been anything resting in his belly, Agron would have been forced to part with it.  As it was, even Spartacus had to turn aside to spit out bile.

The swim was long and dark.  Just enough clearance remained at the tunnel’s arch to allow nose and mouth above the churning current of carrion.

Emerging from the tunnel, the arena worker and pair of guards were swiftly silenced.  Uniforms easily gained.  The stolen pots of pitch were lifted from the water and their wax seals broken.  Agron’s entire being itched and his skin crawled to be wearing the garb of a fucking Roman soldier, but it could not be avoided.

With Mira and Donar and the others set to purpose, Agron accompanied Spartacus through the torch-lit corridors to the gate.  The men charged with dealing death to the prisoners approached.  Agron heard the name “Gannicus” but it was Spartacus who observed of the man, “You were in the house of Batiatus.”

Agron’s eyes went wide, his chin tilting with utter fucking disbelief.

“A lifetime ago,” Gannicus admitted wearily.

Spartacus accused. “And you take to the sands to claim the lives of your brothers.”

“If they must fall, I would see them to honorable death given by one who yet holds them to heart.”

Fuck the gods.

And then the gates were opening.  Rose petals showered down upon the former gladiator as he stepped out onto the sands.  With a nod, Spartacus signaled for Agron to join him at arena’s edge.  The gates clanged shut in their wake and Agron took in the scene.

Rhaskos, Crixus, and -- surprisingly -- Doctore stood as condemned.  Agron weighed the obstacles: Gannicus and the other executioners as well as Roman soldiers stationed at regular intervals.

The crowd roared and Agron took opportunity to admit, “I begin to question fucking plan.”

“We are committed.”

In-fucking-deed.

And so were the combatants.  Before command was given, Doctore attacked and precious seconds of delay were forfeit.

The clang of metal.  The excitement of the crowd.  Rhaskos faced off with three armored gladiators, a single battered and rusted gladius to aid him, hands shackled.

Crixus battled his own opponents at equal disadvantage.

Gannicus alone stood against Doctore.

With each passing second, the executioners tightened formation, refining their attacks.

First blood was drawn.

Still, Mira and Donar’s efforts bore no results.

Agron hissed, “They take too long.”

“We must wait or see effort fail.”

Rhaskos, that blundering fucking fool who devoted hours upon hours to tunelessly bellowing “My Cock Rages On,” was caught in net.  Speared.  Stabbed.

He fell to the sands.

“Fuck,” Agron spat.

Crixus rolled away and gained his feet as Doctore was kicked, hands absent weapon, onto his back.  The final blow a moment away.

The crowd screamed in the throes of bloodlust.  Agron looked to Spartacus, wondering if they would risk assault absent planned distraction--

There was no warning as a section of seats gave way to billowing inferno.

For a moment, it seemed as if no one had even noticed, but then a second section fell and the roar of the flames commanded the attention of all.

Silence descended.  Shock.  And then shrieks of terror as the arena turned upon those who held it dearest to heart, swallowing them whole with fiery jaws.

“Now!” Spartacus shouted.

Agron turned toward the pair of guards at his back, felling them both with a single arching blow from one throat to the other.  Thus the true slaughter upon the sands began.  It had been far too long since Agron had spilled Roman blood.  In past battles, he had fought for Duro, for vengeance, for the sake of drowning the excruciating pain -- if only for a few moments -- in a tide of red.

Now, every Roman he relieved of life was one less shit between himself and Nasir.  Spartacus fought alongside Crixus, executioners and soldiers alike falling at the center of the arena.  Agron circled the middle of the sands, greeting each Roman fuck with fist and blade until there were none left standing.

Regaining sense of surroundings, Agron discovered the flames quickly converging upon their planned exit.

“Spartacus!  We must move!”

“No!” the Gaul shouted hoarsely.  “We must find Oenomaus!”

Spartacus sent a hate-filled glare toward the empty pulvinus.  Releasing a breath and, with it, his hope for vengeance against Glaber this day, Spartacus turned.  “This way!”

From the smoldering awning, Gannicus rose, blade still in hand and Doctore at his feet.  Agron lifted sword ready to strike, but stayed his hand as the man looked from Spartacus to the Gaul.

Then he cast sword aside and called, “Help me with him!”

Agron ran ahead to clear path of burning rubble to the gates.  Doctore was brought, supported between Crixus and Gannicus, while Spartacus hesitated a moment to take in the destruction.  Then Agron was assuming rear position as they made haste toward the sewer and distant safety beyond.

One journey through the rancid channel had been bad enough.  A second was nearly beyond Agron’s ability to endure.  With the wounds gained in the arena, it would be only by the will of the gods if either Doctore or the fucking Gaul survived contamination of filth.  Still, Agron would have endured a hundred passages through the rank decay to burn that fucking arena to the ground.

Despite the stench and sewage yet clinging to them, they moved quickly distant from the city, pausing only to wash in a deep stream.  Agron caught Donar eyeing the coat of chainmail that Agron had donned in disguise and, with a laugh, Agron tossed it his way.

The man caught it, smiling widely.  “So certain your little man won’t desire this as a token of your affections?”

“Not after you satisfy unwholesome urge to paw at it.”  Agron turned back to scrubbing his skin free of blood and filth with handfuls of fine, creek bed sediment.  “Besides, who will believe you were there absent trophy of conquest?”  He grinned.

“Oh, close fucking mouth else I convince the boy to cast you out of favor.”

“Not with a fucking Roman uniform, you won’t.”

“Agron,” Spartacus called, “your cloak.  Let us use it to carry Oenomaus.”

Cloth quickly rinsed and wrung out, Agron redressed in the Roman shit’s under tunic.  His own subligaria he would grasp in hand to dry as they moved.  Oenomaus required more than water to bathe his wounds and, each man grabbing a corner of the cloak, they hurried back to the temple, making good time with Oenomaus yet drawing breath.  Even the fucking Gaul was moving under his own power.

All arrived to jubilant calls of “They live!”  Oenomaus was carried up the steps toward the makeshift infirmary.

“What news?” someone shouted and Agron paused long enough to declare, “The arena is burned to fucking ground with many Romans among the ashes!”

“What of Rhaskos?” a fair-haired woman asked amid the approving clamor.

Donar answered, “He fell as all men should.”

“With sword in hand and blood upon his thoughts,” Agron added, and he hoped that Rhaskos, the stupid fuck, could hear the cheers of friends as well as the panicked screams of Roman shits as he set foot upon path to the afterlife.

“You suffer no wound?”

Agron turned toward the voice, leaving Donar with the chainmail draped over his shoulders to tell their tale of conquest.  Once, Agron would have demanded an equal share of the glory, but that paled in comparison to the simple reward of having returned to break words with Nasir again.

Exhaustion forgotten, he closed the distance between them on a soft chuckle.  “The gods favor me, little man.”

Nasir, still pained by his wound, paused to await Agron’s swaggering approach.  Nasir’s happiness overflowed in a wide smile -- wider than any he had revealed before and the sight only fueled Agron’s bravado.

“Call me that again,” Nasir cautioned, his dark eyes shining with sparks and fire, “and they shall turn from you.”

Though yet in pain, the Syrian would tolerate nothing which he abhorred; such was the mindset of a man who was truly free.  The last tie tethering him to his old life severed.

Laughing with joy pure and sweet, Agron drew near to bask in warm welcome.  He leaned down and Nasir’s hands were suddenly splayed over Agron’s cheeks, not to hold him back but to guide him close.  Heat flashed over his entire form in the wake of the Syrian man’s hands reaching for him with intent, touch no longer purely incidental but _****intentional.****_

At long last.

Agron’s own hands rose to cradle Nasir’s head and the feel of those smooth, cool strands against his callused palms and fingers was a revelation.  Made even more precious by the touch of Nasir’s thumbs bracketing their mouths as smiling lips met.  Nasir concealed the joining of their lips from prying eyes.  This touch, this moment, this happiness was theirs alone.

Smile fading and lips softening, Agron descended into the kiss.  He would gladly swim a thousand thousand times through rivers of shit and stink for such reward.

But it was as yet unearned.

Nasir leaned away and Agron made no effort to stay the motion.  Instead, he bowed his head and, looking to Nasir’s gaze, Agron earnestly spoke, “I owe you many words.”

“I but await delivery.  Have you a room?  Mine is in much demand.”

Ah, Oenomaus.  Yes, he would be with Camilla now, lying upon Nasir’s bed of furs.  “A room,” Agron repeated.  “Of a sort, yes.  Come.”

In truth, Agron’s pallet was tucked into a fucking closet.  A ruined one, at that.  But it was near the room that Camilla had claimed and, therefore, it had been near Nasir.  Even now, there was much commotion echoing along the corridor due to the recent arrival of another injured man.

“There are no larger rooms?” Nasir asked from the doorway.

Agron shrugged.  “Perhaps.  You seek one of your own?”

An observation rather than an answer followed: “There’s scant room for a second pallet.”

“You… would wish to share room with me?” Agron checked, delight revealing yet another smile.

Nasir glanced away, measuring the dimensions of the small cell with his gaze.

Agron’s grin faded.  He had assumed wrong.  Hope combined with memory had conspired to commit error.  Agron and Duro had made do with less space.  With less bare stone.  With less bedding.  With less privacy.  With less future.  With less.

Agron insisted in careful tone, “Space is adequate.  Or, if you are of a mind, accept this room for yourself.”

Nasir glanced to the bedding rolled out along one wall.  Agron had had yet to take rest upon it; he had left for the arena with Spartacus the night following their arrival at the temple.  He’d done little beyond toss his things over the threshold.  He still required a few items to make the space practical: while there was a curtain across the doorway, there was no lamp, water jug, or bowl for washing.

“Where would you take rest?” Nasir asked.  It was a soft question, weighted with equal measures of compassion and concern.

Agron smiled to allay both.  “The nights are pleasant enough out-of-doors.”   He gestured Nasir within.  “The room is yours.”

Nasir was certainly in greater need of its comforts, which would only aid his healing.

“So near infirmary,” Nasir further remarked.

“I had thought the location would be to your benefit.”

“And now it may be even more so.”

In the act of reaching for his pouch of belongings, Agron’s hand paused.  He had fooled no one; he had taken this room for himself not because no one would offer dispute for it, but because he would have likely heard Nasir’s call if he were in need.  Agron had expected to sleep lightly but at length knowing he wasn’t far away.  Yet, if they shared this room, Agron would be closer still.

Crouching with an elbow upon bent knee, he shifted to grin at Nasir over his shoulder.  “Infirmary remains close, but is this not a step in favorable direction?”

“A step by your measure or mine?”

Agron bit his lip, clinging onto affable expression by a thin thread.  “We measure equal.”

“Most would disagree.”

The warning tone surprised Agron, banishing the remnants of his smile.  “You and I are both free men.  Neither is above the other.”

Nasir nodded slowly, meeting Agron’s eyes briefly.  “You spoke of words yet to break.”

Agron’s mouth twitched into a brief frown.  He stood and moved to the doorway, remaining just within the room and meeting Nasir’s expectant gaze.  “I have given it much consideration.”  And each time Agron reached for words, he found them shifting.  His jaw clenched with frustration.

Agron turned gaze aside, his thoughts too easily scattered by the man’s mere presence.  “Should I have accompanied you and Spartacus to the mines or should I have asked you to set foot upon path to Vesuvius?  I know not which course holds more true.  If neither, then I should have been waiting in the forest nearby to greet the Roman fucks who pursued.”

With a blustery sigh, Agron shook his head.  Fucking uncertainty.

“Are these words not also meant for Spartacus?”

One corner of Agron’s mouth hitched upward.  Clever Syrian.  “Then take these for yourself: in choosing to bear false tongue, I should have made the words my own.  Not yours as well, absent choice on the matter.  You were right to speak truth as heart demanded.  Holding tongue caused you pain.  Such was not my intent.”

With that, he subsided to await Nasir’s response.

His gaze was sharp when he queried, “If you alone had heard the slaver’s words?”

Agron sucked in a swift breath at the challenge.  “I would not have imparted knowledge of Naevia’s true fate,” Agron forced himself to admit.  The truth may damn him, but he would not lie to a man he considered his equal, a man who showed every sign of matching Agron in strength of will and, one day, battle skill as well.  “And yet, the path of recent thoughts causes me to question how long I could have held tongue.  Imagining the one I hold to heart suffering in Naevia’s place, I…”

Nasir inhaled suddenly, wincing at either the pull of sliced-burned-sewn wound or the press of steadying arm upon abused flesh.

Agron looked between Nasir, still braced in the doorway, and the pallet.  “Take rest.”

Agron did not wait for reply.  Well aware that Nasir had neither accepted his apology nor shared thoughts regarding Agron’s confession, he once more reached for his things to gather them up.  With heavy heart, Agron resigned himself to parting from Nasir’s company for the time being.  This room truly was far too small for the both of them.  What madness had convinced him otherwise?  “I shall--”

“Stay,” came the firm order.  “Stay and share room and bed.”  Nasir still remained on the threshold.

“If… that is your wish.”  Agron shoved his satchel against the far wall.  Wary of overstepping boundaries, he added, “I will see to a second pallet.”  He straightened.  Took a step toward the doorway.  Nasir matched the movement and the curtain fell shut behind him.  Agron paused.  Grinned again.  “Though it shalln’t find its way here so long as you block path.”

“It may yet,” Nasir replied lightly.  His smile was slow, his eyes heated with intent.

A faint thrum in his belly, Agron approached by a single step.  “Do you stand as guard?”

“I do.  An offering from lips will see you past.”

Agron swallowed thickly.  What cause there was to set nerves jangling, Agron was unsure.  He had kissed Nasir twice already, but those had not been moments spent away from irreverent and curious eyes behind concealing veil.  This was.

Agron’s hand lifted to Nasir’s jaw.  His fingertips brushed against beard stubble.  Nasir tilted chin and lifted face, lips parting and gaze dropping to Agron’s mouth.

Agron angled down slowly, his eyelids falling shut as breaths crossed paths.  An instant later, their lips touched.  Gently, but not simply or briefly.  This was different from the first kiss Agron had offered.  Different because Nasir’s mouth opened to him to permit a restrained taste.  Likewise, his earlier elation at Nasir’s teasing and heartfelt greeting had satisfied so as to leave him absent desire for more than to feel Nasir’s smile against his own lips.  It now took considerable effort not to press forward and take more than was freely offered.

The sudden heat of Nasir’s palm upon Agron’s neck caused breath to tangle in throat, stilling Agron’s lips.  Nasir’s fingers tightened against nape.  His tongue rasped softly between Agron’s parted lips and Agron exhaled in surrender, brushing his fingertips and then knuckles against Nasir’s cheek.  Nasir nibbled at his lips, petting them with slow glide of tongue and lapping with quick strokes.

A hot surge pebbled skin along forearms, racing through blood to pool with telling weight in groin.  A faint groan escaped him and, momentarily forgetting himself, Agron rocked forward.

A palm in the center of his chest, an insistent pressure against skin through tunic’s parting at the neck, brought coherent thought into focus.

Agron pulled away, but not far enough to dislodge the warm fingers that had burrowed into the hair at the base of his skull.  He reveled in the sensation of intimate embrace.  His mouth felt warm.  His lips tingled as if waking from numbness.  His skin was flushed with heat and his cock was… noticeably interested in the proceedings.

Opening his eyes, Agron almost fell back toward those lips, but forced his gaze up to Nasir’s dark eyes.  The Syrian’s chest rose and fell with soft pants.  Agron’s more so.  He made effort to calm his breathing.  Lazily petting the line of Nasir’s jaw with his thumb, Agron asked, “Will you take rest?”

“You are in greater need.  When did you last sleep?”

Agron’s mouth twitched into a wry smile.  “Some nights past.”

“I will bring food and water.  Take rest, Agron.”

He gave in with a sigh, reaching for the tunic belt and dispensing with the hated garments.  He’d donned his subligaria upon the trail once it had dried, but his cock was still hard beneath cloth now stretched taut.

Nasir’s gaze snagged on the evidence of his arousal, but neither man spoke of it.  Agron lowered himself to bed.  “A short rest,” he acquiesced.  “Then I will see to that second pallet.”

“If none is found?”

“Then I gladly surrender this one to you.”

Nasir hummed with humor.  “You do not share your bed while you are in it?”

“You are yet healing.  I would not cause injury in sleep.”

A hand caressed his cheek and Agron opened his eyes.  He truly must be exhausted as he could not even recall closing them.

“Wake me when you are in need of rest,” Agron murmured, leaning into the touch.  Nasir’s touch.  Willingly given.  This was worth weeks of waiting.  A true bargain.  He resisted sleep long enough to bid Nasir, “If I fail to stir at sound of voice, wake me from arm’s length with grip upon shoulder.”

“That is your preference?”

“Yes, in that it will give you opportunity to seek safe distance if I startle.”

“You do _****not****_  share your bed well.”

“I never have.”  On more than one occasion, Duro had received a bloody nose or black eye or bruised rib during restless nights of hopelessly dark dreams as Agron had struggled to escape both his own shameful weakness and their cramped, squalid quarters.  

A breathy chuckle caressed his brow.  “I shall try not to complain as your other lovers have done.”

Agron’s own voice blurred in his own ears: “There have been none.  Only you.  If you wish it.”

The fingers petting his face stilled.  Agron thought nothing of the accompanying silence before he was folded into soothing darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the arena, Agron sees each Roman as an obstacle between himself and Nasir. This is not a permanent change in Agron’s motivation for fighting. Because he and Nasir have left a lot of things unresolved, the goal of getting back to Vesuvius is foremost in Agron’s thoughts in this chapter. (Don’t worry -- I’m not going to turn Agron into a complete romantic-gotta-get-back-to-my-man sort of guy. He has a lot of reasons for doing the things he does. Of course Nasir is a big part of that, but not ALL of it.)
> 
> When Agron says he’s never had a lover, he’s talking about someone he’d open his heart to. He’s not commenting on his sexual experience (which is brought up in the comments on Chapter 1: Brothers and Chapter 2: Wild Little Dog if you’d care to read through them).
> 
> Also, in writing these canon scenes, I realized just how fast-paced this TV show can be at times and WHEN DO THESE CHARACTERS EVEN SLEEP I MEAN REALLY. So, yeah, in the interest of keeping this fic in line with the canon, sometimes the pace is ridiculously fast. Where I can, I slow things down.
> 
> EDIT: Writing the kiss scene made me remember something else of note -- in 2x02 and 2x03, Agron makes a decent effort at interacting with Nasir at eye-level (especially when they're talking, just the two of them) but, man, I think the very end of 2x04 (when Agron hunches and curls down to kind of nudge Nasir out of his exhausted and agonized slump just to reconnect with the man) is the moment when Agron commits his ALL to SHOWING that he considers Nasir his equal. I dunno. Just my impression right then/there.


	6. Share Room

 

“Agron.”

A soft voice, so at odds with the shouts of battle and the blood on Agron’s hands, pulled him from the gore at his feet.

“Agron.”

Louder now.  He turned to face it, awareness surging into him as his eyes opened.  Agron blinked at Nasir, who stood just inside the threshold.  There was an oil lamp in the corner.  A water jug with a clean cloth folded over the mouth.  A large bowl -- a basin -- beside.  He took in the additions to the room, including Nasir’s watchful eyes.  It was then that Agron realized he’d rolled up onto his side, one palm flat upon the pallet and the other hand gripping the hilt of a dagger scooped up from the floor.

He sighed, shoving belt and weapons away.  As he sat up, scrubbing his face vigorously, Nasir huffed out a laugh.

“You truly do not rest even when taken by slumber.”

Agron managed a wry grin.  Glancing sidelong at Nasir, he answered, “And so head yet rests upon neck.”

Nasir’s smile dimmed.  “Has life always been so?”

“Much of it.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Nasir would speak, but then he answered Agron’s lingering grin with one of his own.  “I bring food.”

“It is evening, then?”  The corridor beyond was lit with golden light.

“Past,” Nasir confirmed, ducking around the curtain to retrieve something from the floor.

Agron moved to the water pitcher and poured a bit into his hand, rationing it carefully as he rinsed his face and neck, clammy from restless sleep.  The weave of the cloth was finer than anything Agron had ever held in his hands.  He hesitated to use it until Nasir urged, “Dry face and come eat.”

Doing as commanded, he slumped back onto the pallet.  His shoulders pressed to the cool wall, and Nasir passed a bowl of warm stew to him.  Agron readily lifted the rim to his lips to take a mouthful, but quickly realized that Nasir, who now sat beside him, had nothing of his own.

Wiping the corner of his mouth with back of hand, Agron passed the bowl.  Nasir frowned in protest.

Agron insisted, “I would share.”

“I would have you feed your strength.”

Agron smiled.  “So we are in agreement.”  He pressed the bowl against Nasir’s arm insistently.

With a belabored sigh, Nasir complained, “You are stubborn.”

“A trait common among men from lands east of the Rhine.”  He watched Nasir swallow a little of the stew, accepting the bowl when it was passed back to him.

“You remember your homeland?” Nasir asked as Agron partook of another bite.

Handing the bowl over yet again, he nodded.  “With great clarity.  I was not taken from it many years ago.”

“You were a warrior in your own lands as well?”

“Yes.  At the service of chieftain.”

“And what would such service entail?”

“Protection of lands from other clans and Roman conscripts.  Quests for plunder and glory.”  Agron grinned.

A moment of silence followed and Nasir placed the bowl in Agron’s hands, one query after another reflected in his eyes but none were given voice.

“Nasir, ask,” Agron invited, lifting the bowl of stew.

“How came you to such charge?”

“By the death of my father.  A common farmer, but hard-working to my memory.  His loss forced my mother to seek another husband.  One who already had many children.”  Agron met Nasir’s compassionate gaze.  “She delivered me and my brother to the fort.  I had seen, perhaps, eight summers.  My brother six.  We were housed, fed, and trained to fight alongside other boys and girls of similar circumstance.”

There was very little soup remaining in the bowl, but various clumps huddled at the bottom.  Meat and roots.  Agron tilted the bowl toward Nasir, who reached in with his bare fingers to scoop up a piece.  Agron followed suit.

“From a warrior of lands east of the Rhine to gladiator of Capua,” Nasir summarized.  “A far distance to travel.”

“Not only in body,” Agron volunteered, “but in mind as well.”

Nasir arched a brow before claiming another solid bite.

“Upon capture, my thoughts scattered in all directions: my brother’s survival, a warrior’s death for both of us, sending those who would call themselves our masters to the afterlife…”  All worthy priorities, shifting in accordance with circumstance.  “But -- in the arena -- as I made sport for fucking Romans…”  Agron shook his head, lips compressing with fury.  A deep breath and the feel of Nasir’s arm shifting against his saw it subside once more.  “It is not a sudden journey, but many small steps -- mistreatment and pitiful rewards which briefly lessen misery -- that would have a man thirst for approval and mistake it for purpose.”

“You found glory in the arena?”

“I was there only once.  Yes, I thought it was glorious, so taken was I with victory.  I was blind.”

Nasir bumped the bowl against his arm and, with a heavy breath, Agron plucked up a chunk of what upon first bite was discerned to be meat.  He chewed the fibrous mass slowly.

“What opened your eyes?” Nasir inquired after he’d swallowed his own bite.

“Our dominus made decision to part me and my brother at the next games.  Duro had never fought absent my side when death stood as an outcome.”

“You feared for his life.  That was the end to which you moved when you rebelled against your dominus?”

Agron nodded.

Again, Nasir hesitated.

Again, Agron encouraged him to speak his thoughts, though Agron’s voice was hoarser now than it had been before.

Nasir looked into Agron’s eyes and smiled gently.  “Your brother would be proud of what you have accomplished.”

Agron sucked in a harsh, unsteady breath.  Blinking against the sudden sting of tears, he pressed the bowl toward Nasir, who plucked one last morsel for himself before leaving the pallet to wash hands and face.  Agron unclenched his jaw long enough to swallow the rest before changing places with Nasir at the wash basin.

Face and hands once again clean and dry, Agron addressed Nasir, “I believe it is your turn for rest.”

“I will not argue the point.”

Agron knew that would not be the end of it.  “And yet…?” he prompted.

Nasir glanced down at the bandage.  It had been changed while Agron slept.  “Reclining pulls at wound.  It is difficult to find rest, let alone take it.”

“Would that you had a sling for your arm.”  Already, he was considering the length of fabric they had been using for a towel, wondering if it would be suitable…

“A sling… or a great brace for body,” Nasir proposed.

Agron breathed out a laugh.  Smile soft, he inquired, “What would you have of me?”

Nasir’s eyelashes fluttered and, from one breath to the next, the equal measures of exasperation for his own injury and humor at Agron’s quick enthusiasm to aid fled his expression.  “Apologies.  I do not intend to command.”

Agron shifted closer, lowering knee to pallet.  He reached for Nasir, tilting his chin up as Agron leaned down.  “I heard no command.  I offer aid.”

Lips twitching from hesitant smile to relieved grin, Nasir made request, “Would you recline on right side and hold arm secure?”

Answering with action, Agron pressed his lips to Nasir’s brow.  “Rise up.  The pallet is too narrow for what you intend.  I would re-position it.”

Nasir complied and Agron dragged the low bed closer to the center of the narrow room.  Laying his cloak upon the hard floor alongside the pallet, Agron held out hands to Nasir, who used tight grip upon them to support himself as he slowly shifted to lie down.  Agron settled atop the cloak at Nasir’s back and carefully reached an arm forward.

“Place my hand,” he bid Nasir, who tucked left arm up beneath the weight of Agron’s.  Agron turned his wrist to cradle the limb in comfortable hold.  He waited for Nasir to relax, but tension yet held him fast.

Giving additional consideration to placement of wound, Agron suggested, “I would recommend the aid of leg as well.”

He felt Nasir’s tight nod and Agron shifted his left leg, bending at the knee and pushing against the underside of Nasir’s thigh.  “Call halt,” he murmured and then gently began closing his body around Nasir’s.

Nasir was curled up on his side, hips fitted to the cradle of Agron’s, and trapped in the grip of gentle vise when he breathed a sigh of relief.  “Halt.”

Agron settled his weight to hold position.

“You need not remain all night,” Nasir whispered.

“If you require it--”

“I do not.  Just until sleep ceases to elude me.  That is enough.”

Agron nuzzled against Nasir’s glossy hair, daring a kiss to the spot behind his ear.  Nasir hummed a sound that welcomed the attention and he sighed out a breath, melting further against Agron’s form.  With his head propped up upon hand, Agron studied the corner of Nasir’s jaw in the light of the single, oiled wick.  His gaze traced the high curve of cheek.  The fan of dark lashes.  The curl of an escaped lock of hair.  His lungs drew in the scent that wafted from Nasir’s skin: herbs from the poultice, sweat, and some essence that was purely Nasir’s.

Timing his breaths to match, Agron learned the rhythm of the man’s slumber, inhaling and exhaling in concert, absorbing the trusting weight of slight form against torso, turning thoughts toward the words he had broken of his childhood rather than dwell on the hardening cock trapped between the heat of their bodies.

No, Agron was most certainly not going to allow thoughts to turn toward Nasir’s uninhibited smile, the taste of his lips, the feel of his cock in hand, his soft hum of invitation just before slumber had descended…

Not considering a single one of those thoughts.  Not for a moment.  Not even to--

Fuck the gods, he was failing abysmally.

Agron stared hard at the little flame in the far corner and brought thoughts to bear upon Duro.

Would that Nasir had met him.  Would that Nasir had met _****Agron****_  before Duro had departed this world and taken so much light with him.  Or would the tether between them have never taken hold had Agron yet been prone to boyish giggles?  Inexplicably, Agron recalled a time shortly after their arrival at the ludus.

Spartacus had strode past their cell and Agron had scoffed, _****“That****_  tiny man is the fucking champion of Capua?”

Duro had snorted, “Fucking Romans swell legend to their advantage.  We can easily best the man, Agron.”

Yet the Gaul, Segofax, had reminded both Agron and Duro, “Spartacus defeated Theokoles and the skies wept to honor his victory.  The two of you would present challenge equal to piss and shit.”

The brothers had shared a look of disbelief and giggled.

“You find my words amusing?” Segofax had demanded.

Duro had answered the challenge, “Your words?  No.”

“The stupid fuck that speaks them?  Very fucking amusing,” Agron had struck.  It had ever been the way between them: Duro leading with opening volley and Agron landing the final blow.

Fuck the gods, Agron would never not miss the sound of Duro’s laughter.

Closing his eyes, Agron once more focused on Nasir’s shallow breaths.  Senses thus heightened and calm tentatively restored, he heard approaching footsteps well before they passed the room yet used by Camilla for Oenomaus.  He knew this stride, swift and light: Mira.

Now fucking what?

She paused beside the doorway.  He glimpsed her feet beneath the edge of the curtain which rippled under her hand but did not lift.

Agron turned his mouth away from Nasir’s ear and spoke quietly, “A moment, Mira.”

“Spartacus awaits upon the portico.”

He bit back a sigh as her footsteps receded, then began to shift away from Nasir.  The placement of the man’s left arm proved a challenge, but Agron managed to ball up his cloak and use it as cushion to support limb.  Having no notion of how long Spartacus would wish to speak in the cool open air, Agron pulled the Roman shit’s under tunic over his head once more and fastened the belt with a grimace.

Seeking an excuse to remain until he was sure that Nasir would not immediately wake from discomfort, Agron quietly poured the used water into the bowl they had eaten from.  Nasir was still resting uninterrupted when Agron pulled aside the curtain.  When he gained the front of the temple, Agron located the water barrel and used one of the cups to rinse the bowl before replacing it with the others.  His gaze swept over the people sleeping upon the ground.  Soon they would have to be set to purpose regarding repairs to the roof.  The weather would not remain so accommodating indefinitely.

With a sigh, Agron moved to where Spartacus, Lucius, and Mira were considering a map that had been laid out upon the stone.

They spoke of carving an escape tunnel beneath the temple toward the wilderness, but such a route would likely only delay defeat should their position be discovered by the Romans.  As the temple’s limited defenses were appraised, Lucius inquired, “How many among you shoot with purpose?”

Agron found himself profoundly irked at the thought of archers playing a role of greater importance than those who had first struck crippling blows with blade -- those who still held responsibility for all who had joined the cause.  He mocked the old man: “There is not much call for arrows in the arena.”

“You no longer fight upon the sands.  Nor can you forge a sword from a fucking tree!” the old man spat.

Spartacus interjected, “Then we will fashion weapons from what nature provides.”  Laying hand on Lucius’ shoulder, he added, “With practiced hand instructing in their use.”

Agron hissed, “We can train until the gods take us.  House slaves will never be gladiators.  Something we are in short supply of.  We need fighting men.”  Emphasizing this point by thumping a fist against Spartacus’ arm, Agron nearly held his breath awaiting the Thracian’s decision.

Spartacus turned gaze down toward the map before gathering it up in his hands.  Somewhat resigned, he said, “Perhaps it is time to revisit plans toward Neapolis.”

At long fucking last!  Raiding the port to liberate ships carrying warriors captured in foreign wars had been the main reason for the move to Vesuvius, which held favorable position relative to the city.

Spartacus bade Agron to take two men and coin.  “Weight palm in Neapolis to loosen tongue of ships soon to dock.”

Agron was satisfied to the point of smugness, but he cared not that it showed.  What drew far greater concern was the sudden appearance of Gannicus, the man’s sharp, sober gaze falling upon the map.  With the former champion’s loyalties undeclared and misgivings toward the rebellion openly voiced, it was a happening of concern.

When Spartacus confirmed that there was no wine to be had, the Gannicus retreated back into the temple, presumably to sit discontent with mere water to guzzle at the side of Oenomaus.

Agron turned to Spartacus.  “I would wait for break of day before setting foot to path.”  His gaze flickered meaningfully after Gannicus.

Spartacus nodded and bid Mira, “The map.”

She departed to secret it in a place of safekeeping and Spartacus steered Agron away from Lucius with a hand on his shoulder.  “A word, Agron.”

“Only one?  You have not yet rested well enough if you are so taxed.”

The Thracian’s mouth twitched with a rare smile that flattened quickly.  “You dismiss former house slaves from the ranks of warriors.”

Agron snorted.  “You believe I should not?”

“I had thought your opinion otherwise with regards to Nasir.”

His response was swiftly and solemnly spoken: “It is.”

Agron paused before speaking further words.  Spartacus would be less inclined to dismiss his counsel if given absent passion.  “Nasir is the best among the freed slaves, but a few weeks of training is no match for the skill of Roman soldiers.  What he and the others may yet do in the months to come is cause for hope, but we have not the time.  And I would not see them used for the same purpose fucking Roman conscripts are intended.”

The latter point was an issue of which the Thracian was well aware, having briefly served in the Roman Auxillary prior to his arrival at the house of Batiatus.  Conscripts from foreign lands were hastily trained at best and meant to give the enemy pause, to delay rather than defeat, at the cost of own life… which Roman fucks valued far beneath their own.

“I stand with you, Agron.”  Again, faint smile reappeared.  “Yet, your enthusiasm for recruiting able-bodied fighters of skill to our cause would have nothing to do with intent to shield Nasir until he is able to stand against Roman opponents?”

Agron retorted, “Naevia is also included behind such a shield, yet you would not chastise the fucking Gaul for it!”

“I do not chastise you.”

“Then speak fucking mind.”

“I only wish you to be clear on your own intentions.”

Agron gave Spartacus a flummoxed look.

The Thracian elaborated, “You were eager to set purpose for Vesuvius before Nasir broke words with Crixus.  And you were yet eager to see Nasir to safety after you parted company.  So much so that you brought every able-bodied warrior to bear on the venture.”

“They moved on the hope that you yet lived,” Agron replied, but the argument sounded feeble to his own ears.

“They followed you and would have followed you to Vesuvius absent me.”

“You do not know the mind of each man.”

“No, I do not, but I know yours.  And I know Crixus’.”

Agron tensed.  “You would liken me to that fucking Gaul?”

Spartacus stood his ground in the face of Agron’s mounting fury.  “In this one regard, are you two so different?”

Agron seethed.

“I do not intend offense.”

“Then cease fucking insults.”

“Is it not time for you and Crixus to mend the tear between you?  We are of the same brotherhood.  We have spilled blood at each other’s side.  We have risked all for the ones we hold dear, and we still stand.  Would that it will always be so, but the future is never certain.”

Spartacus gave Agron’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning and rejoining Lucius for further words.  Perhaps concerning those fit to train in archery.

Agron returned to the temple interior, passing by the room now occupied by Oenomaus.  The man remained unmoving upon raised platform.  Gannicus slumped moodily upon an overturned, empty pot that had escaped Lucius’ penchant for flinging such containers at walls.

Agron was tempted to fling a few himself.

Wary of his own temper, which still burned hot, he paused beside the curtain to his and Nasir’s sleeping quarters… and found himself lifting the fabric aside with a gentle nudge.  With upraised arm braced upon battered doorway, Agron leaned his forehead upon fist.  A smile touched his lips; Nasir lay upon the pallet, further curled around the bundle of Agron’s cloak.

His throat closed at the sight, refusing to permit even a swallow to pass.

Nasir rested upon Agron’s bed… in the room that they now shared.  Despite all forces that had stood in opposition of this moment coming to pass, they had both endured to reaffirm trust in each other, to share a meal from the same bowl, to shoulder weight of the past, to grow stronger for it.

It was not so difficult to imagine Crixus gazing upon Naevia thus.

Agron’s eyes squeezed shut and his head dropped forward in defeat.  He would have to extend apologies to the Gaul after all.

Fuck the gods.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, you can probably totally tell that right around this chapter was when I started feeling the need to write "And Prove More Fierce," yeah? (^_~)


	7. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: (oblique/vague/roundabout) reference to NCS (Nasir's past)

 

Agron woke gently from his doze to warmth and tantalizing scent.  He shifted to pull both closer, burrowing against long strands of thick hair.

“Hmm, you are awake?”

Agron nodded, smiling before he remembered Nasir’s injury.  “Do I worsen pain?”

Nasir shook his head, his hair catching briefly on the beard stubble along Agron’s jaw.  “You share warmth well.”

Agron chuckled.  Nasir alone rested upon the narrow pallet with Agron’s left arm and leg once more in requested position; Agron had spent some time during the night working with reeds and rushes that had been gathered and set out to dry the day before, weaving a mat in the manner he had once done as a warrior when moving great distances with speed.  It had been too long since his fingers had been set to such purpose and a good portion of his efforts had been clumsy.  Eventually, he had prevailed, producing a thin but serviceable second set of bedding as promised.

“What do you rest upon?  Not bare stone?”

“Take my arm in aid and see curiosity satisfied.”

“Well received.”

Agron obligingly lifted his left arm to hover at an accommodating angle.  Nasir’s hands curled around his wrist and the man pulled himself up.  Turning toward Agron, Nasir retained hold upon arm and Agron grinned at the disarray of Nasir’s hair.  The tie had slipped so far as to be useless and black hair swept against Nasir’s cheeks like raven’s wings.  Agron shifted, freeing his right arm from beneath cheek to trace the sloping locks with his fingertips.

Nasir’s smile coaxed one in answer from Agron.  The simple pleasure of waking at Nasir’s side... he had never even thought to desire such a thing, but now that his eyes and arms and -- fuck -- his entire _****being****_  lay open to it, Agron would do anything to ensure all mornings arrived thus.

“Did you make this?”

Ah, the mat.  Agron nodded as Nasir leaned closer, the man’s hand passing over the tight weave.  As dark strands of hair fell over Nasir’s brow, Agron caught them between his fingers, combing the locks back.

Nasir paused suddenly.  Agron’s smile faded as Nasir’s eyes closed and his jaw tensed.  “Shall I fetch Camilla?” Agron asked.

“No, the wound is not so troublesome.”  Nasir drew a deep breath, slow and measured.

Genuine concern seized Agron, who said, “Nasir.  Do not hold back words.  Speak your mind and set mine at ease.”

“Do not…”

Nasir drew yet another breath.  Agron waited, frozen in place.

“Do not tighten fingers.”

Agron blinked.

Nasir’s eyes opened.  “Upon hair.  Do not tighten fingers.”

Immediately, Agron’s hands relaxed.  “Apologies.”

Rather than offer words of explanation, Nasir tugged on Agron’s elbow until he sat up and curled both arms around Nasir in sidelong embrace.  Agron tilted his head against Nasir’s and closed his eyes on a long exhalation.  He made effort not to consider why Nasir would make such request; while Agron was absent experience on the matter, he was not absent imagination.

Pressing his lips to Nasir’s disheveled hair, he breathed, “I know very little of what is demanded of house slaves.”

Nasir’s grip tightened.

Agron murmured, “But know my hands will never move with intent to harm.”

The strands beneath Agron’s cheek shifted as Nasir turned further into the embrace.  “Of your hands, many Romans would claim otherwise.”

“And there are plenty more who will yet share that sentiment.”  He pressed kisses to the loose tangles.

Nasir chuckled, seemingly in spite of himself, before he sobered.  “Agron… I have never had luxury of choice.”

Agron’s eyes squeezed shut at the admission.  He struggled not to crush Nasir to him as despair and fury and some yet unknown and overwhelming sensation caused tears to burn his eyes.  All warred within him absent victory.

“And flesh remains tainted by unpleasant memory.”

 _ ** **Soiled and ruined,****_  Naevia had said.

Fuck the gods, Agron had not wanted the same thoughts to plague Nasir.

“Your flesh is your own now.  You are free,” Agron reminded him softly.

“Yet at times I feel much hesitation.”

Agron thought of Spartacus’ words from the night before: _****the future is never certain.****_   While that stood true, Agron resisted the conclusion that urged haste.  He answered Nasir’s admission with his all, “Place my hands as you desire.  I am content.”

“With so little compensation?”

Agron shook his head.  “It is overmuch by my estimation.”

A soft hiccup emerged from Nasir’s throat.

Agron’s nose sifted through the ever-loosening strands of gleaming hair until he exhaled against the shell of Nasir’s ear.  The Syrian man’s form trembled with a brief shiver.

Agron held his breath.

A long moment later, Nasir tilted his head and breathed, “Again.”

Grinning, Agron complied, releasing another breath against the offered ear.  Another shiver followed, a small victory in the war for pleasure Agron would wage alongside Nasir.  Agron’s belly tightened from within, heating as flame emerging from wisps of smoke and splinters of kindling…

And then the gurgle of Nasir’s empty belly interjected.  

Agron gave a breathy chuckle at the grumpy complaint.  “After belly is filled, I would not oppose chance to learn more of this.  At some later time.”

Nasir leaned back to offer a wide smile.  “Nor I.”

With a soft kiss upon Nasir’s brow, Agron pushed himself onto his knees where he paused for Nasir to reaffirm grip upon arms and gain feet.  When the Syrian man did not move toward his too-small bag of belongings, Agron realized that that Nasir must be lacking many comforts.  Given the mussed state of Nasir’s hair, Agron could name one such absent item.

“I have no comb,” Agron realized, chewing the inside of cheek in thought.  “But I am able to twist hair.  If you allow it?”

Nasir, with forearms pressed to the bandage spanning his middle, gave a ready nod.  Pulling the curtain aside to allow more light within, Agron then carefully lifted the leather thong to examine the knot.  A few strands were caught, standing as the only reason that the tie had not slipped out completely.  Agron was glad for the weaving he’d done the night before as he carefully untangled the binding.  Once freed, Nasir’s hair descended in a cascade that Agron ached to feel against his face and between fingers, but he committed hands to purpose.

Laying the leather thong over Nasir’s shoulder with a soft, “Stand your charge,” he earned an amused huff of, “So great is the honor you bestow with it.”

Grinning, Agron shook his head.  “The honor is mine.”

“If your handiwork is complimented.”

“It will draw no notice.”  He was fairly confident this would be so; the humbly arranged, twisted locks would be lost in the wake of Nasir’s blinding smile.

Another hungry noise from Nasir’s belly prompted quick work and it was with a little pride and some regret that Agron finished the task so soon.  He tied the leather thong in place with a second knot for good measure and reached for his belt and cloak.  The under tunic was gladly discarded.  He looked up to find Nasir’s right hand upon the twists, tracing them with nimble fingers.

“Do my efforts meet with favor?”

“They do,” Nasir assured him.  “And much gratitude.”

He moved too quickly for Agron to anticipate, placing a brief kiss upon his chin.  Smiling, Agron took note of the gesture.  Next time, he would meet those lips with his own.

Dawn had broken through the trees not long before and there was already much activity surrounding the portico.  Gannicus appeared to have found a means of escaping it by setting ass upon temple wall, gaze trained to forest as if charged with morning watch.

Not fucking likely.

Agron and Nasir awaited use of the water barrel to rinse hands, face, neck, and mouths.  Then Agron moved to the remaining rushes that had been gathered and from which he’d selected material for the mat.  Agron collected a few more.  These he formed into a thin brush meant for cleaning teeth.  Nasir’s gaze followed the movements of Agron’s hands, his own mimicking the movements and requiring only a few quiet corrections before fashioning a serviceable product.  Naevia approached, curious as to their activities, and Agron stood aside as Nasir showed her the way of bending and twisting the reeds.

Agron smiled at the unabashed pleasure both Nasir and Naevia gained from the simple act of weaving and resolved to share more of what he knew from his time spent in the wilderness between battles east of the Rhine.

Noticing that Naevia remained unaccompanied, Agron scanned the area, finding Spartacus and Crixus breaking words upon the portico.  He heaved an unhappy breath at the thought of what Spartacus had asked him to do.

“Agron?” Nasir queried.

“I must break words with Crixus, though I’ve little expectation that they will be well received… no matter how carefully chosen.”

Nasir’s hand touched Agron’s arm, the sensation still so new as to draw his immediate attention.  “Speak with heart the words you would wish to hear were you in his place.”

Agron placed a soft kiss upon Nasir’s temple in thanks.  Nasir beamed and then inquired of Naevia, “Your counsel would be most welcome as well.  As the one Crixus holds closest and kindest to heart.”

She smiled, seeming both embarrassed and flattered.  She told Nasir, “My counsel, perhaps, but you will stand in my stead to receive Agron’s kisses.”

Nasir’s shoulders twitched as he waylaid a bark of laughter.  Agron shook his head, grinning.

However, before Naevia could speak, Spartacus called the attention of all to their victory in Capua.  It was a great triumph in that the arena, a symbol of Roman might at the expense of true freedom, now lay in ashes… yet a looming threat of reprisal remained.

“One day, perhaps soon,” Spartacus predicted, “they will strike back.”

“How do we avoid them?” a man called out, the strength of his fear overcoming any hesitancy to utter words he might have bitten back as a slave.

Spartacus answered, “I do not intend to.”

Agron stiffened.  He cast gaze toward Crixus, and followed the Gaul’s stare toward Naevia.  Agron’s own eyes turned toward Nasir.  

Some futures _****were****_  certain.  The Romans would come regardless of whether they stood united.  For the sake of those who could not yet join in battle, it was time to strengthen bonds.  There was nothing to be lost and everything gained if Agron and the Gaul could reach some measure of understanding.  Spartacus’ words were true: they had fought too long and too hard alongside each other for their differences to remain obstacles.

With a brief touch upon Nasir’s shoulder in parting, Agron silently began his approach to task.  He skirted the crowd within the temple yard.  Still unsure of the words he would break with Crixus, his steps were slow and meandering, arms hanging uselessly at his sides.  Would that the coming confrontation could be met with familiar blade in hand.

Only two strides separated him from the Gaul now and Agron looked to Nasir, who gave him an encouraging smile.

That brief glance and curve of lips emboldened Agron to step to the Gaul’s side and break words: “To set eyes again upon your heart… I understand now why a man would risk all for such a thing.”

“If it were not for _****you,”****_  Crixus nearly sneered the word, “and the others, I would have fallen in the arena.  Never to gaze upon her face in this life.”  The Gaul turned his eyes toward Agron, who yet faced forward as if absorbed in Spartacus’ speech.  “It is a thing I will not forget.”

Agron nodded.  Perhaps this would not be as difficult as he had anticipated--

“Nor the lie you told that saw her stay in that place another fucking day.”

Agron kept his mouth closed against a sudden flood of bitterness.  He met the Gaul’s furious glare and reached for words that had allayed fears and frustrations in the matter of his own heart.  Shaking his head, Agron reminded them both, “She is safe now.  All other things fall to unimportance.”

The Gaul’s gaze slid past Agron to seek out Naevia.  “You think a few words can change all that has happened?”  Facing forward once more, he concluded, “You stand a larger fool than I thought.”

The fucking Gaul.  He would place blame upon Agron for every ill fortune to have befallen Naevia.  A single day -- Agron had withheld truth for _****a single day,****_  yet the fucking Gaul would see him held accountable for all!  Well.  So fucking be it.

“Apologies,” Agron offered with a sneering curl of lip and resentment curdling in belly.  “The mistake was mine… to offer comfort to a fucking Gaul.”

The fucking Gaul struck first, grabbing Agron’s cloak and sending fist across face.  “You offer shit!”

Agron lunged with a swing of his arm, just missing the Gaul’s chin before Agron caught him about the middle.  The two were swiftly pulled apart before their tempers took hold with deadly intent.

“Crixus!” Naevia called.

A step behind her, Nasir’s shock and disappointment was an even harder blow than the one the fucking Gaul had landed.

Spartacus stepped between them.  “I thought we had moved past this,” he growled at the Gaul.

“Wounds still linger,” he retorted, quitting the scene as if unable to endure the sight of Agron for even a moment longer.

Agron was too furious to note the presence of blood upon his chin.  “I move for Neapolis and thoughts of swelling rank with better men!”

Unwilling to allow his fury to fall idly upon Nasir, even in the form of a look, Agron headed for the temple.

“You need not fear the Romans,” Gannicus called from the top of the wall, laughing.  “Your own men make attempt to kill each other!”

Spartacus set everyone to purpose, but Agron disregarded the commotion, sounds of movement fading as he stormed into the corridor and spun across the threshold of the small room to seek solitude.  Kicking the pallet aside, he crossed the distance to the far wall and slammed both fists against its unyielding surface before finally coming to a halt.  Breaths boomed in the silence.  Slowly, fists unfolded and Agron pressed palms to smooth stone.  His forehead lowered and the hard, cool kiss of the wall soothed his temper enough for him to feel a gaze upon him.

He turned sharply, suspecting who would be there yet wary of assumptions made in error.  It appeared to be a day for such, after all.

But it was Nasir.  Of course.

Agron’s laugh was absent humor as he raised his arms in an irreverent shrug.  “All went as fucking expected!”

“Apologies.  My advice was lacking.”

“No, _****no****_  blame lies with you.  Only that shit-eating Gaul who would have me stand for every villain that has wronged Naevia.”

“You were merely closest at hand.”

Agron chuckled, low and dark.  “And I am a villain.  For one day.  One fucking day!”

Nasir remained upon the threshold, allowing Agron to fume.  After a moment, he inquired, “Have you broken words with Naevia on this?”

“Yes.  And she would hold me accountable for _****not****_  stopping that fucking Gaul’s attempt on the mines!”

“Does she?  Or is it you who place blame upon your own shoulders?”

Agron blinked at Nasir before retreating two steps to fall back against the wall.  Eyes squeezed shut, he cursed on a heavy sigh through gritted teeth, “Fuck the gods.”

Silence.

He drew a deep breath before he heard Nasir’s quiet steps, the scrape of clay, the slosh of water.  “Agron.”

He opened his eyes.

Damp cloth in hand, Nasir gestured to his face.  “There is blood on your chin.”

The chin that Nasir had playfully kissed before crossing threshold to greet a new day.  Agron angrily swiped at it with back of hand.

Nasir ignored the attempt and stepped so close that Agron’s bent knees brushed Nasir’s legs.  When Agron reached for Nasir’s hand, the Syrian man shook his head, dodging Agron’s fingers deftly.  With a belabored sigh, Agron allowed him to dab the drying blood from skin and stubble.  Once that task was completed, Nasir’s fingers touched his lower lip, tugging gently to reveal the damage.

“Will I yet live?” Agron inquired.

“I suppose,” Nasir replied with an indulgent grin, turning his attention to the smear of blood on the back of Agron’s right hand, wiping it clean.

Once freed, Agron raised both hands to Nasir’s face and tilted his forehead against the other man’s.  “Gratitude.”

Nasir gifted him with a soft hum.  “I trust you will return absent additional wounds?”

Ah, fuck.  Neapolis.  Nasir must have heard his words to Spartacus.  Agron lowered his hands and nodded.  “It is a tame venture.”

“And that stands the only reason I leave it to you.”

Otherwise, Nasir would claim it for himself.  Spirited little shit.  

Agron breathed out a laugh.  “I am only for Neapolis.”

“Unaccompanied?”

“No.  And if coin is sufficient to task, I shall return before nightfall.”

“How can I assist preparations?”

In answer, Agron ducked down and stole a soft kiss.  Nasir was smiling as Agron leaned back.  “I hope no one else among your group will lend such aid.”

Agron laughed yet again.  “Out of fear of your reprisal, they stay their advances.”

In the end, Agron was not required to prepare much at all.  Donar and Fulco met him on the temple steps, packs in hand and capes across shoulders.  Donar passed the coin and map to Agron, and Fulco shared out a portion of food for Agron to slip into his pack.

“Successful venture, swift return,” Nasir bid them.

As Donar and Fulco descended the steps, Agron asked of Nasir, “Lift not any roofs nor tunnel to Capua while I am too distant to admire efforts.”

Nasir snorted.  “Perhaps I will make teeth brushes from reeds.”

“Then I shall return to many bright smiles, yours foremost among them.”  With a final press of lips, Agron jogged down the steps and caught up to his companions before they turned the corner.

Donar noted, “Your boy still favors you absent token of victory.”

Fulco chortled.  “Perhaps some other token was well received.”

Agron cuffed both of them upon the back of head.  “Close mouth and set foot to path.”

“Says he who walks with such lightness of stride,” Donar teased.

“More like excess weight relieved from cock and balls,” Fulco amended.

Agron pointed a single finger at Fulco.  “If you do not close mouth, you will find fist between teeth.”

“Ah,” Donar mused, “perhaps it was not such a pleasant fucking… night?”

Agron flicked Donar’s ear.  “Continue taunts and suffer increased pace,” he threatened.  “I’ll not abide your fucking presence a moment longer than necessary.”

“You cause needless injury,” Fulco pouted, “and also spoil sport.  But, out of fear that you would have us run to fucking city, we will set jests aside.”

“Indeed.  We do not wish to return you to your boy absent strength to satisfy demands!”

In response to Agron’s inarticulate growl, Donar merely smirked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nasir suggests here that Agron presents a convenient target for Crixus’ anger, but I had a chat with FuckinGauls about this a while back and we talked about the possibility of Crixus resenting Agron due to Agron’s seemingly effortless happiness. (If you’d like to read more about this, the majority of my headcanon can be found following the heading “Re: Crixus giving Agron a hard time about being a teddy bear” in the Chapter 3 comments.)


	8. Presented Choice

 

Agron returned to temple camp as the sun began its final descent.  He gladly shoved both Donar and Fulco toward the meal fire and out of fucking sight.  A sweeping glance enabled him to locate Nasir where he sat upon the portico near a small gathering of freed men and women working reeds and rushes into weave.

Drawn by movement beside the meal fire, Nasir stiffened at the sight of Agron’s companions.  He quickly turned toward the yard and Agron’s smile widened when their gazes met.  He paused long enough to see Nasir exhale with relief before Agron took steps to cross paths with Spartacus.

Laying the map once more upon the stone of the portico, Agron gave his report: “In two weeks’ time, a ship will dock here.  Its hold laden with fighting men captured by the Romans.”

“A few of us dressed as merchants could gain entry before they’re unloaded?” Spartacus proposed.

Agron nodded.  “Such a thing is possible.”

“Your labors have borne fruit.”

“Not all as sweet,” he continued.  “News carries through the streets.  Glaber has raised the bounty on your head to nine thousand denari.”

The scuff of a footstep at his back caused Agron to turn.  Gannicus loomed with a smirk and a slain boar slung across shoulders.

“It seems you have caught nothing but Rome’s attention.”  Chuckling, the Celt sought a place to butcher the animal.

Marveling that the fucking Celt had yet again appeared while the map lay open, Agron jerked a thumb in the man’s direction and asked of Spartacus, “Were the Gauls not fucking bad enough?”

Spartacus cast a look that begged for tolerance and Agron turned back to the map, outlining the routes available to the docks.

“This will be taken into consideration when the time draws near,” Spartacus said in a tone that spoke of finality.  Agron refolded the map and Spartacus extended his platter to Agron, who gratefully accepted a few morsels of dried fruit and nuts.

He would have joined Nasir then, but Agron caught sight of Naevia’s approach toward the Syrian man.  As Nasir stood to allow her to check his bandage, Agron paused upon the steps.  Though he wished to set eyes upon Nasir’s wound, which he had last seen when it had yet to begin healing, Agron felt no inclination to intrude.

Instead, he chewed at a dried fig and considered the words Nasir had spoken earlier.  Perhaps Agron still placed blame upon himself.  Not for the loss of men who had breached the tunnels; those fucking fools had thrown themselves toward the afterlife.  Neither could Agron have dissuaded the fucking Gaul and Spartacus from gods-fucked venture.  The weight Agron shouldered was one of abandonment.

He had left for Vesuvius with no thought to providing aid to Spartacus and Nasir once they had made their way clear of the mines.  Agron should have been waiting in the forest to greet the Roman fucks who tracked the survivors.

Three men had been lost: Liscus, Tychos, and Fortis.

Agron had missed opportunity to gut Roman shits with his own hands.

Nasir had taken a terrible wound and had nearly been taken from this world.

With a sigh, Agron accepted Spartacus’ counsel: mistakes must be confined to the past lest they be repeated.

Seeking aid of distraction, Agron reopened the map though his attention remained fixed upon Nasir’s exchange with Naevia.  Words passed easily between them, speaking of growing familiarity.  A welcome sight, yet Agron saw how Nasir yet stood with hands lowered to his sides, merely watching Naevia tend to the cloth spanning his belly.

Did Nasir offer his touch to no one beyond Agron?

That thought raised others: ones of satisfaction and possession.

Agron inhaled sharply.  Yes, it pleased him to be the sole recipient of Nasir’s affection, but should one of them be the possession of the other…

To possess was to risk loss.

Agron’s mind stalled upon memory: Duro’s final breath echoing in Agron’s ears; his brother’s cooling body in his arms; Agron’s knees digging into blood-soaked sand.  Donar had once mentioned hearing Agron’s scream but Agron held no memory of making sound at all.

Agron’s jaw clenched and his eyes squinted against the sudden, chest-cracking pain.

Inspection completed, Naevia departed and Agron swiftly abandoned pretense, once more tucking the map away.  Nasir smiled at him, still picking and fussing with the lay of the wrappings.

“It was a worthwhile journey?” he inquired as Agron leaned in to press a kiss to Nasir’s temple.

“Very.  Have you eaten?”  Agron extended his palm, offering the remaining fig and few nuts to Nasir.

Accepting one of the nuts, Nasir gestured for Agron to sit, then lifted his own platter of dried meat and fire-baked roots.  Again, Agron assumed that Nasir had claimed both their portions and Agron was mindful of taking only his own share.

“You would not have more?” Nasir questioned, indicating the food that remained.

As Agron was certain this was from Nasir’s half he declined: “I do not require it.”

Nasir’s gaze darted over Agron’s form in a manner that indicated swift calculation and careful thought.  “A man whose belly yet feels hunger is quick to temper.”

Agron shrugged, taking a last nut for himself and dropping the remainder into Nasir’s palm.  “A full belly makes a man sluggish and stupid with drowsiness.”

“Had you no one to stand guard while you took rest?”

Knowing Nasir was speaking of Duro, Agron shook his head.  “It was I who stood guard.”

Nasir’s mouth tightened.  “I would not have you do so in my regard.”

The assertion and accompanying frown surprised Agron.  “It is the only manner I know for--”  Realizing what meaning the coming words would carry, Agron’s throat grew tight and he lowered his voice.  “--for showing affection.”

Nasir reached out and touched Agron’s elbow.  The contact was brief, but Agron’s skin burned.  “There are other ways,” Nasir assured him lightly.

Agron grinned.  “Would that I had a patient instructor.”

Nasir laughed loudly enough to turn heads and Agron’s smile widened.

“An instructor possessed of patient mind who is also a patient of medicum in body,” Nasir replied, wincing briefly and pressing hand to bandage as wound was jarred by mirth, “I will recommend such a man.”

Agron answered in soft tone, “And he shall be gladly received.”

Nasir’s brows arched in challenge.  “You will heed his counsel?”

“I but only seek to learn.”

“The attentive student gains greatest benefit,” Nasir replied in lowered voice.  During their exchange, both men had been steadily leaning closer and now Nasir’s gaze dropped to Agron’s lips.  Absent hesitation, Agron lifted a hand to Nasir’s cheek and answered the invitation wordlessly.

Though they sat in view of all, Nasir did not move to shade the movements of their mouths from wandering gazes.  His palm slid along Agron’s jaw until warm fingers burrowed into the hair beyond the shell of Agron’s ear, which Nasir teased with a gentle caress of thumb.

A nibble from soft lips and the slow, shallow glide of tongue sent a surge of heat rushing through Agron’s blood.  He retreated quickly, lest he forget that others were nearby.  

One glimpse of the pleasure upon Nasir’s face, eyes closed in surrender and blush upon cheek, nearly drew Agron forward, but he fought the urge.  Little by little, he was acquainting himself with this new manner of battle, gaining ground in retaining control of senses.

Yet it seemed he had much to learn with regards to that as well; as Nasir’s eyes opened, he glanced past Agron’s shoulder and stiffened.  “Chadara,” he greeted, surprise clearing all passion from his countenance.

Chadara.  A woman of dark eyes and fair hair who had been liberated alongside Nasir.  Agron had never broken words with her, but he recalled her ill-fated favor toward Rhaskos.

She smiled.  “I come to ask if aid is required in setting intent to purpose only to find you have the matter well in hand.”  Agron did not care for how pleased she appeared to be.  “Advice given was well received -- pursuit of desire leads to many rewards.”  With a lewd wink, she turned to leave.

Agron had every intention of allowing her to find entertainment elsewhere.

Nasir did not.  “Chadara, wait.”  Agron watched as Nasir rose and stepped toward her.  Again, he did not reach out, but bent his head and lowered his voice.  Agron heard his words regardless… as Nasir undoubtedly intended.  “I do not pursue desire for position.”

Her shrug was unbothered.  “It matters not.  Result is same.”

“No, it is not.”  Agron was surprised to see a flash of temper from Nasir, but the Syrian man quickly regained control and his expression softened.  “I heard of Rhaskos.  Please accept my sympathies for your loss.  And I must beg forgiveness; I have not grieved with you, as friends ought.”

The woman brushed aside Nasir’s sincere attempt.  “You have your own concerns.”  She sent a quick glance toward Agron and playfully scolded Nasir, “See them well attended lest opportunity is lost.”  With a waggle of brows, she turned away.

“Chadara…”  Nasir lifted a hand in supplication, but she did not answer.  Nasir stared after her, jaw clenched in frustration.

Agron considered the exchange, yet made no attempt to speak.

Nasir sighed and, squaring his shoulders, met Agron’s gaze.  “I would break words on this.”

Nasir had never made the request with so much vehemence.  A free man, indeed.  The unshackled force of him was a sight to behold and one to which Agron would readily concede even though he could guess what Nasir wished to speak of: the implication that Nasir sought to advance his own standing by way of Agron’s affections.

The very thought was fucking ridiculous.

Nasir had both threatened and saved Spartacus’ life -- between one night and the next, no less -- as well as willingly entered the mines to aid the Gaul in his quest and battling Roman soldiers unflinchingly; Nasir already commanded considerable standing in his own right regardless of novice battle skill, which Agron would happily assist with improvement as soon as Nasir’s health permitted.  Yet, it was clear that Nasir was not aware of this.

Agron would be pleased to inform him.

And, if Nasir preferred to break words on the subject in private, Agron would gladly accommodate.

He reached for his pack.  As he lifted leather satchel to shoulder, Agron noted the absence of something: bulk and weight and the gentle clanking of coin.

The look he cast must have been terrible for Nasir froze in place.  “Agron?  What is it?”

Dropping to knee, Agron tossed his pack upon the stone, pawing roughly through it, but in vain.  “The map is gone.”

“What?”

“The map -- is gone!”

Just passing across the portico, Donar overheard this.  “The map?”

 _ **“Gone!”**_ Agron bellowed, struggling to recall if he had truly packed it among his belongings or if he’d placed it elsewhere after parting company from Spartacus.

“What of the coin?” Donar demanded, voice rising.

“Unaccounted for as well,” Agron added, shoving the pack at the man so he could check its contents for himself.

The gathering tension in the air pushed many to their feet and Agron wove between bodies, ignoring murmurs of confusion and glances of concern, to reach the chest across the way.  He and Spartacus had broken words near it and it was the next likely place for the map to have been placed.

A crash of toppled seating accompanied a crack of thunder from the heavens.  Donar set their brothers to search and panicked cries of people fleeing their path were joined by Agron’s snarl: “Nothing!”

“Nor here!” Donar called.

“Calm yourselves!” Spartacus shouted over the commotion, emerging from the temple.

In answer to the Thracian’s demand for explanation, Donar informed him, “Our remaining coin is _****missing.”****_

Agron barked, “Fuck the coin!  Our map is gone!  Our position.  Plans toward Neapolis.”

At these words, dread replaced panic and all quieted.

Donar concluded, “Someone seeks to betray us for promise of Glaber’s reward.”

Someone.  Perhaps the very man who now emerged from the temple, clearly intent on setting foot to path: Gannicus.

Spartacus inquired what the man carried, and Agron was unsurprised when the fucking Celt refused to open his pack.  It would come down to a fight, then.

By the gods, Agron was more than willing.  He charged down the temple steps to meet the Celt in battle--

“No!” Spartacus commanded and Agron halted.  “Do not come between us.”

Agron obeyed, yet he remained poised at the foot of the temple with earth beneath feet, sword in hand, and blood upon thoughts.

Thunder rolled as Spartacus cried, “I will show him what a man with cause is capable of!”

A quick tap upon Agron’s far hip and Nasir’s voice -- “Your sword” -- reeled Agron back to himself from the realm of lethal intent.

He required but a moment’s pause to ensure that Spartacus’ mind was truly set and then Agron straightened.  Rotating the blade to offer it pommel-first, Agron tossed it toward Spartacus, who caught it neatly and raised two swords to meet the twin blades held by Gannicus.

At the first clash of metal, rain was unleashed by the heavens, pouring down in torrents to continuing booms of thunder and flashes of lightning.  Agron tracked each attack, tensed for action should Gannicus attempt to flee.  He moved to prod Nasir toward the temple steps, but then realized that such a path would put the Syrian man between Gannicus and temple exit.  Agron rocked upon the balls of his feet, arms slightly lifted, prepared to move quickly should either the battle itself endanger Nasir or Agron’s aid be required by Spartacus.

The crowd upon the temple steps stirred, but Agron remained focused upon the fight.

“Spartacus!”

The shout came from Mira… as did the arrow that passed between the combatants and pierced the back of a single, fleeing woman.

Nasir jerked.  “Chadara!”

Spartacus and the Celt drew apart, their weapons stilled yet held at the ready.  All turned toward Mira, Agron included.

“She was trying to slip away while all of us stood fixed,” Mira claimed, striding forward.

Agron heard Lucius compliment the shot, but Agron himself was gazing upon Nasir.  Agron had no memory of the man racing to Chadara’s side let alone crouching upon knee in the damp earth.  One moment, Nasir had been a mere arm’s length from Agron’s side and, the next, he was far removed.  Still swift despite wound.

Swift, but not swift enough.  Agron’s frown tightened as Nasir collected the dying woman’s hand in both of his.  Her chest hitched a final time.  Her eyes emptied of life to the crack of nearby lightning strike.  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

Nasir lifted the hand in his grasp to his forehead, pressing her fingers to the place where Agron would lean his brow upon Nasir’s.  Where Agron had many times leaned his brow against Duro’s.

Suddenly, Mira pulled a bundle of folded parchment from the folds of Chadara’s dress.  “She took the map.”

“Why would she do such a thing?” Spartacus wondered aloud.

Mira answered, “She felt she had no place among us.  She sought to secure one elsewhere.”

Agron stayed at Spartacus’ side as the Thracian offered apologies to the Celt: “Your words proved true.”

“It has not always been so,” Gannicus admitted.  He turned away from Spartacus to share final words with the Gaul, “You stay?”

Speaking for himself and Naevia, he answered, “We do.”

“Then I shall mourn your passing.”

With that dark prediction, Gannicus departed the temple, destination and motives still unknown by those who remained.

“Is it wise to let him go?” Agron asked, giving voice to thought shared by all… except Nasir who grieved in silence, shoulders trembling.

“Every man has a right to his own choice,” Spartacus insisted.

“He may yet prove a threat,” Mira argued.

“We have faced far worse.”

Agron’s gaze turned toward the slain woman, Chadara, and the threat she had nearly brought to purpose.  That path had been of her own choosing, yes, but bought with Nasir’s pain.  For that reason alone, Agron would have killed her with his bare hands had she yet drawn breath.

Agron approached Nasir, kneeling beside him but not touching.  All seemed to be waiting for Nasir’s response.  When he gave it, his voice was steady, as if he were stating his intent to craft more teeth brushes from reeds: “I would see her to a safe place.”

Agron nodded.  He glanced up at Donar, whose shoulders slumped in acceptance of the burden.  “At dawn we will see to her,” Agron told Nasir, receiving a brief nod.

The crowd dispersed.  Spartacus reclaimed the fallen swords and passed beyond Agron’s sight into the temple.  For what purpose, Agron cared not.  Mira stepped back to stand with Lucius and Donar.

Agron remained beside Nasir, who had yet to release Chadara’s hand.  He rubbed her fingers briskly, as if the act could bring warmth to flesh again, and angled his head toward Agron in confidence.  Agron immediately bent nearer to receive words.

“Your inclination to touch flees when it is most desired.”

“Apologies,” Agron murmured, placing a hand upon Nasir’s shoulder.  He felt the shuddering breath that Nasir took.  Palm traveling over rain-soaked tunic from shoulder to shoulder, Agron entreated, “Will you come?  Let Chadara rest before her journey begins on the morrow.”

Agron was not generally keen on waiting.  Most especially not when action was required.  The night was growing cold.  Nasir’s body was already strained from healing.  A chill might tax him beyond limit.  Agron very badly wished for Nasir to be warm and dry, but he stayed the impulse to gather the man up in his arms and wrest him away from the body.

Slowly, Nasir lowered his hands, placing Chadara’s arm across her waist.  Then he surged to his feet and, clutching at the wound beneath his bandages, hurried up the steps and into the temple.

“They were friends?” Mira asked.

Agron paused in the act of following.  Something in Mira’s tone brought his attention to bear and he tensed at the look she cast.  Pointing a finger at the thought he could see reflected in her eyes, Agron said, “No.  Chadara held concern only for herself.  Nasir is our brother.”

Donar moved to Agron’s side.  “No one would dare speak against Nasir.”

“Yet,” Lucius imparted, “accusation would not be not made lightly.  The map was taken from your possession, was it not?”

“Now you accuse me of taking part?”  Agron bit down upon a mad grin.

Lucius dismissed him: “You claim to hold the wits for such a scheme?”

Donar’s arm spanned Agron’s chest just as he lunged toward the fuck.  “Take pause and breathe, Agron!”

He did.  He paused.  Inhaled.  Considered Lucius’ meaning.

Agron’s jaw clenched.  Drawing in a breath that was deeper yet, he strove for words absent passion.  Where he had not bothered with the effort in his own defense, he understood the importance of doing so for the sake of Nasir’s.

The mere thought that Nasir might have either known of Chadara’s plans or provided aid called forth rage that Agron reserved for Romans alone.  He now included anyone who would insult Nasir among their kind.

However, the challenge remained unanswered and a sword would be of no aid in seeking resolution.  He must break words on the matter lest a delay cause greater hardship and suffering.  Agron would permit neither to befall Nasir.

Speaking through a sneer and gritted teeth, Agron recounted the evening: “She approached us in moment of distraction.  Nasir saw her and broke words to offer sympathies for Rhaskos’ death, but she seemed unconcerned and eager to part company despite Nasir’s attempts to hold conversation.”

Agron glared as they absorbed this: Nasir would not have called attention to Chadara’s presence had he been aware that she had stolen the map.

Lucius sighed and Donar allowed Agron to shove his restraining arm away.

Mira’s gaze lowered.  “Apologies.”

“It is not I who is owed them,” Agron informed her, “but the man who raised sword against Roman soldiers in aid of saving your fucking life -- the man who suffered grievous wound in doing so -- _****he****_  is the one who would see his generosity returned in kind!”

To this challenge, Mira gave no comment.

“Still,” Lucius mused, “such genuine grief for one who would betray him to his death.”

Agron took a step in the old man’s direction.  Donar tensed again.

“A fact well known to both me and Nasir!” Agron spat.  “If you believe such is not cause for grief, you heartless shit, then you can rot beside her!”

Even as he pointed to the dead woman, Agron reached for the dagger he still wore.

“Agron!” Mira shouted.

Donar grabbed his arm.  “See to your boy, Agron.”

With a snarl, Agron shouldered past them and leaped the steps two per stride.  His speed was slowed only by the sight of Spartacus emerging from the room that Agron had chosen and now shared with Nasir.

Before Agron could open mouth, Spartacus returned borrowed sword to his grasp and quietly told him, “I have refilled the lamp and there is warm stew from Lucius’ hearth.”

“I require nothing from that Roman shit.”

 _ ** **“You****_  do not,” Spartacus agreed, “but Nasir does.”  Laying a hand on Agron’s shoulder in passing, Spartacus added, “Besides, Lucius does not yet know I took any.”

“You may wish to inform him lest he accuse you of conspiracy,” Agron bit out.

Spartacus’ gaze darted from Agron to the curtain, his quick mind grasping Agron’s meaning.  “Does Lucius yet draw breath?”

“Only just.”

Scowling, Spartacus moved with purpose to leave the corridor.  Agron caught his arm.  Lowering voice further, Agron mouthed on a breath, “Yet I found myself defending his grief--”  With a jerk of his chin, Agron gestured toward his room, indicating that it was Nasir’s grief of which he spoke.  “--equally to Mira.”

“Mira?”  This surprised the Thracian.

Agron lowered his hand and nodded once.

“I will speak with her,” Spartacus promised.

And because Nasir was yet unable to defend himself against a woman of such deadly skill and dark thoughts, Agron did not decline the offer.

He entered the room to find Nasir squeezed into the corner beside the doorway, wedged so tightly into the space that he might soon merge with the stone and disappear.  The bowl of stew steamed at the foot of the pallet, which had been returned to the center of the tiny room.  The oil wick flickered with flame.

Agron shrugged out of damp cloak and set aside belt before moving to crouch in front of Nasir.  “What would you have of me, little man?”

The old insult drew Nasir’s brow up from arms folded upon upraised knees.  “I gave warning not to call me that.”

Agron’s lips tensed briefly before he committed to the course that would see grief and anger released.  “And Chadara gave no warning that you were but days from the afterlife.”

Such words would have invoked fist-swinging rage from Agron, but Nasir pressed the heels of hands to his eyes and bared teeth.  “Blame rests upon me.  She required a friend and I was absent her side--”

“Because of fucking wound!” Agron squawked.

Nasir’s head dropped forward, his forearms slowly rising as if to shield his skull from the wrath of the gods.

Agron sighed.  “Nasir.  You extended your hand to her.”

“After she made decision to betray us.”

“And yet she could have confided her error to you and replaced the items absent notice of others.”

Nasir snorted.  “Absent _****your****_  notice?”

“You would not have distracted me for the sake of her life?”

The question was gently asked.  Absent accusation.  Agron could guess that Nasir would do such a thing if Chadara had truly felt change of heart.  Agron could also guess that Chadara had been well aware of the lengths to which Nasir would make effort and take risk on her behalf.  Rather than embrace them, she had seen only his limitations.

Laying a hand upon Nasir’s forearms and coaxing them to lower, Agron asked, “What did Chadara seek?”

“Protection and position,” Nasir murmured, lifting chin and opening eyes.  Meeting Agron’s gaze he repeated, “She sought protection and position.  I do not.”

Agron cupped Nasir’s face in his hands.  “You have earned position through your own actions in aid of cause, and you may claim the protection of the brotherhood in which,” Agron hastened to say as Nasir gathered breath for rebuttal, “you stand included.  Through bravery and brand upon skin.”

“Would that Chadara had been given similar opportunity.”

Blowing out a breath in frustration, Agron searched for words.

Nasir spoke first, “Absent it, she could not see her own true worth.”

“Then grieve for her loss,” Agron responded, patience spent, “because no one else fucking will.”

Fire returned to Nasir’s eyes.  “You place all blame upon her.”

“Her actions would have brought the Romans upon us while we are still unprepared.”  Unprepared, yet so close to acquiring additional -- needful -- numbers, so close to having the means to meet the coming army in battle.

Agron leaned closer.  “Her actions would have seen you to the afterlife.”

He had said as much moments earlier, but Agron felt the point worthy of repetition.

Sparks flared in Nasir’s eyes as genuine anger took hold.  “She is not to blame for the fear that moved her to purpose!  She knew naught but the collar of slavery!”

“Neither did you!”

“I was given education!  Knowledge of numbers!  Oration!  Literature!”

Agron snorted.  “They’ve been of great fucking use in recent days.”

Nasir shook his head, turning away from the words.

Agron struggled not to tighten his hold on the man’s jaw.  It was with words that he must entreat and words had never been Agron’s weapon of choice.  Exception for insult aside.

“You think I did not see the look you cast upon Spartacus, Crixus, and myself after we took the villa and your dominus lay dead?  Sword was placed in your hand by the man who would open your eyes to freedom, yet you thirsted only for vengeance.  How came you to make attempt upon his life?”

Voice weakened by memory of misdeed, Nasir rasped, “Spartacus had taken everything from me, and I believed he would call himself my master.”

“And yet it was your hand that spared him mortal wound.”  Agron asked again, “What moved to you to purpose?”

“I…”  Nasir swallowed.  His lips pulled back in faint echo of the snarl Agron had first seen from a wild, little dog.  “New-found desire,” Nasir bit out, “that I would rather die with hand upon sword than absent it.”

Agron’s eyes burned with sudden heat.  His lips compressed, turning down at the corners into a frown that prompted from Nasir a faint smile.  Fuck the gods.  The little man knew Agron was fighting tears.  “As would I choose to meet my end,” he confided.

A hand fell upon Agron’s head.  Cool fingers combed through his hair and Agron resolved to never let it grow and tangle in the way of the warriors of his clan.  Never again.  Agron had sheared it short in the wake of his defeat -- his failure to protect Duro -- and released with those locks any pride in past victories.  Those victories were meaningless when weighed against the loss of his brother.

But now Nasir’s touch claimed his scalp, each caress expressing pleasure.  This was victory renewed.  One Agron would maintain indefinitely.

Nasir whispered, “Chadara was presented choice.”

Agron nodded.  “Just as you were.”

Nasir’s lips flattened.  His chin quivered.  The fingers in Agron’s hair tightened though they did not curl.  Nasir’s other hand reached for Agron’s shoulder and he finally -- at long fucking last -- leaned away from the fucking corner.  Agron led him to the pallet.  The stew was still warm.  Agron knelt at his back and bracketed Nasir’s hips between his thighs.  When he reached for Nasir’s clammy tunic, no protest was given.  Pressing his chest to the chilled skin of Nasir’s bare back, Agron collected the bowl and held it out to him.

“Belly turns at thought of food.”

“You require its warmth.”

“Then provide distraction.”

Agron pressed his cheek to the damp twists of Nasir’s hair.  His hands rubbed briskly at Nasir’s shoulders and arms, taking care to jar neither bowl nor wound.  As Nasir hesitated to drink the broth, Agron cleared his throat and offered words in his native tongue.  He told a short, amusing tale meant for children about a pig of uncommon cunning who convinced a wolf to accompany him to market where the pig collected a price for the creature’s pelt before leaving the unwitting buyer in possession of an animal yet wearing its skin.

Speaking the words in rhyme where his father had once sung them, Agron paused after each line to offer translation in common tongue.

“That is the language of your people?” Nasir inquired.

Agron nodded.

“It is pleasing to the ear.”

“Then I shall speak it again.”  Agron repeated the story, daring to add a hint of tune to the words, though no amount of encouragement could entice him to break into song.  Duro had sung well.  Agron, not so much.

Soon, only solid morsels remained in the bottom of the clay bowl and Nasir insisted Agron take his share.

Unwilling to explain why accepting food from Lucius’ stew pot soured Agron’s stomach, he ate an equal half but was gladly distracted by Nasir’s eager attempts to form the words he’d heard.  Hearing such smooth, silver tongue make clumsy efforts, Agron gave corrections with a broad smile.

When the bowl stood empty and a promise was made to continue the lesson at a later time, Agron settled on the woven mat beside the pallet.

Nasir did not request further distraction from either thoughts or unsettled belly.  

Agron’s left arm cradled Nasir’s and his left knee nudged at thigh.  He once more curled his body around Nasir’s form until pain from wound lessened… and then he held fast as pain of loss and regret was bled out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore Mira, I REALLY HONESTLY DO, but I think she and Agron rub each other the wrong way most of the time and, since this fic is from Agron’s point of view, we don’t see her in a positive light much. (Pity.) But given that Mira suggests to Spartacus that Agron could be attempting to take over the rebellion (after they liberate the ship from Germania) AND Spartacus has amazing timing when he stops Mira from killing Ilithyia (perhaps he notices she’s missing, suspects what she’s up to, and rushes to stop her?), I thought it was possible that she’d respond to Chadara’s theft of the map and coin in this way. Also, she has just killed someone (who she could have reached out to and helped instead of scolding for being lazy -- remember that moment during the archery lesson and Chadara tries to attach herself to Donar?) and so Mira is probably trying to justify her actions, thereby blowing things out of proportion and spreading blame and implying some not-nice things. She doesn’t do it to be intentionally mean or spiteful; this is her knee-jerk reaction to a tragic situation. After living so long in Batiatus’ house, seeing the things that she has and enduring the stresses that she’s now under (including fearing that Spartacus will never truly love her the way she needs him to), I think her mind could definitely take her to some pretty dark places.
> 
> BUT! Lucius (who is pretty embittered with life at this point) is the one who comes up with the most damning accusations. So, really, compared to his ingrained suspicion, Mira’s isn't nearly so bad... but then again, she totally shot an arrow at someone based on SUSPICIOUS ACTIONS AND NO PROOF OF MISDEEDS WHATSOEVER. So, maybe Mira IS that bad...
> 
> FuckinGauls and I hashed out Nasir’s reasons for attacking Spartacus in 2x02 (if you want to read the full discussion, it’s in the Chapter 2: Wild Little Dog comments), and I stand by the cold calculation that might have guided Nasir’s thought process, but when Agron asks about his attempt on Spartacus’ life here in Chapter 8, Nasir just boils it down to what affects only himself and his relationship with Agron. Because, yeah, Agron probably doesn’t have the patience to sit and listen to Nasir’s step-by-step game plan of vetting Spartacus, Crixus, and Agron. Under normal circumstances, Agron would do his best to listen (because he respects Nasir and admires him), but right now he has zero patience for it because Nasir is cold and wet and in danger of getting sick. (And, anyway, Nasir is not Tiberius the body slave anymore; he’s changed and there’s no point in dredging up outdated motives.)
> 
> And, OK, THIS THOUGHT JUST OCCURRED TO ME TODAY. It’s generally accepted that Chadara intended to betray the rebels for the means to make a new start, but Chadara never actually tells us this, does she? I mean, it’s Donar who says someone stole the coin and map because they seek to betray Spartacus for Glaber’s reward. It is entirely possible that Chadara did not intend to do this at all. Maybe she took the map and the coin to help her get away. In short, she was running AWAY from the rebellion, not TOWARD Glaber. True, the timing of the theft came right after Glaber issued that 9,000-denarii reward for Spartacus, but perhaps this was the first time Chadara had seen either the coin or the map OR it was simply the first opportunity she had to steal them. If this is actually the case, then Agron and Donar (and Mira) accuse her of the worst possible motives because it is easier to think the worst of her (an outsider and misfit among the rebellion) than of themselves (who are of course acting for a Righteous Cause). Or maybe it’s a mishmash of all of these, each point to a lesser degree. I think this would occur to Nasir, but he realizes there’s no point in trying to defend her motives since it doesn't change the fact that she would have left them high-and-dry, regardless?? Just, you know, thinky thoughts and whatnot.
> 
> And just because -- I’ll note the contrast between Nasir’s response to hearing German (“It is pleasing to the ear.”) with Glaber’s, which is the exact opposite (when he attempts to question Harudes and Harudes curses him in 2x10). I don’t intend anything profound by it; I just thought it was a fun comparison to bring out the dividing line between “friends of those from east of the Rhine” and “enemies.”


	9. Before Neapolis

 

Nasir had already woken when Agron shifted and opened his eyes.  The novelty of sharing a bed fell upon Agron’s skin like sun-warmed summer rain even as it made his entire body tighten with anticipation for a new day.

Tilting head back against Agron’s chest, Nasir greeted him with a sorrowful smile and Agron remembered the task ahead of them.  He pressed a whiskery kiss to Nasir’s temple, caressed the wrist yet held gently in his grasp, and they rose to see to Chadara.

Work on the temple continued and every able set of hands was put to purpose, so Donar’s presence was met with some surprise when Agron went to collect Chadara’s body.  Mira had wrapped the woman in a shroud, the same hands that had taken life now aiding in guiding spirit to the world beyond.

“I would carry her body,” Donar said not to Agron but to Nasir, further explaining the offer with minimal words, “I have prepared a resting place.”

Nasir nodded.  “Gratitude.”

Several men and women gathered near, nodding to Nasir and offering sad smiles.  The freed house slaves from his former domus.  Agron made no effort to restrain his scowl: where had their show of fucking commiseration been the night before?  Hiding in fear of accusation, no doubt.  Nasir had given no shit for the opinions of others as he’d disregarded wound and knelt in the mud beside a woman he called friend in spite of her misdeeds.

Agron’s fingers twitched to touch him, to somehow acknowledge and reward Nasir for his steadfast heart.

The Syrian did not speak again until the earth closed over Chadara’s form and Donar took his leave, following the small crowd back to the day’s tasks.  Nasir stood with head bowed beside the grave at the edge of the clearing that surrounded the temple, and Agron made effort to keep his thoughts turned away from the work that needed to be done.  He placed a hand upon Nasir’s shoulder.  That, and no more.

Long moments followed before Nasir lifted his face to the overcast sky and asked Agron, “What customs are held by your people to celebrate memory of life?”

Agron’s hand shifted, sliding beneath long hair to rub the back of Nasir’s neck.  “I will show you.”

They walked the clearing, Nasir watching as Agron stopped from time to time to gather up long stems emerging from tall grass, heavy seeds bowing the stalks.  Their destination was the creek that provided the temple with fresh water, but Agron urged Nasir to venture a short distance downstream.  Just within the embrace of the forest and concealed from gaze, Agron knelt beside the water and stripped the seeds free from stalks to gather in hand.

Nasir’s palm rested on Agron’s shoulder as he gingerly lowered himself to his knees.

Agron held out his hand and the seeds cupped within palm.  “One for each act of courage, one for each kindness, one for each victory.  Let them pass through mind at leisure and flow with water’s current.  They will find Chadara when she pauses to drink, and she will take strength for her journey to the afterlife.”

Nasir hummed, his smile sad yet also pleased.  “An accounting of all would require days.”

“It is not a ritual, merely custom.  We will return as often as you would part with thoughts.”

Nasir’s fingers dipped into the gathered, wild grains, and each was dropped into the stream after brief pause.  Agron counted twenty offerings before Nasir took pause and lowered hands to lap.  “I would think more on what I wish to send to her.”

Agron shifted closer and was both pleased and surprised to find that Nasir moved to meet him, touching brow to brow.  “Gratitude, Agron.”

“None required.”

They returned to break their fast at the temple, arriving only a little late but finding Mira had already set aside their portions.

Agron nodded in thanks.  Nasir smiled but, before he could speak, Mira said, “Apologies, Nasir.”

The words and the sentiment were not enough by Agron’s reckoning to account for the injury Mira’s actions and accusations had caused, but as Nasir was unaware of the latter, Agron made no comment.

Nasir smiled gently.  “All who follow Spartacus are safe and we are free.  This is cause to rejoice.”

Mira’s answering smile trembled as she looked from Agron, who still glared at her, to Nasir.  She broke no further words, merely nodding before returning to her charge.

“Did you quarrel?”

Agron startled, turning his attention from Mira’s retreating form to Nasir’s inquisitive gaze.  With a huff and a wry tilt of both head and lips, Agron allowed, “When do I not quarrel with someone?”

Nasir breathed out a laugh.  “As is common of men from lands east of the Rhine?”

Agron chuckled.  “You may one day see with your own eyes that it is so.”

“Agron!” Spartacus called as he approached.  “I would have you and Lydon see to acquisition of supplies.”

Nasir touched Agron’s arm.  “I leave you to it.”

“No roofs.  No tunnels.”  An expectant stare accompanied the orders.

With a look that warned Agron not to underestimate Nasir’s good sense, he said, “I will aid Camilla if she is in need.”

Agron offered a smile and Nasir accepted the brief touch of hand upon cheek before turning toward the temple interior.

The day passed swiftly enough.  Donar and Fulco had been sent out to hunt, so Agron was not plagued by constant jibes.  Lydon was a man of sparse words and had the sense not to test Agron’s tolerance.

They raided a merchant wagon upon the road to Capua, striking the driver before the man laid eyes upon them and dispatching the pair of Roman guards with considerable enthusiasm.  Armor, weapons, and coin were stripped from the bodies and corpses concealed beyond the road.  Lydon gathered up the reins and they quickly turned the wagon toward the temple.

Upon return and delivery of goods, Agron quickly washed and slumped down against the wall beside Nasir.  As they took evening meal together, Nasir requested that Agron show him how to weave additional sleeping mats like the one in their room.

“On the morrow,” Agron agreed, and then returned to other promised lessons: speaking in the language of his people before uttering the words in common tongue.  When Nasir smiled with delighted comprehension and repeated eagerly, Agron taught him words for “evening meal,” “food,” “meat,” “water,” and “bed.”

The latter was given as they retired to pallet and mat.  Agron embraced Nasir in the manner which aided the man’s rest, and bid him a good night and gentle dreams.

Agron was first to open his eyes to greet morning.  He smoothly leaned up upon elbow to study Nasir until nose twitched, lips drew together, and lashes rose.  “Your gaze is a thing felt,” Nasir complained lightly.  “How is it you slay wild and wary beasts when you hunt?”

“I do not hunt now.”

Nasir chuckled.  “And I am no wild, wary creature?”

Curving bodily around the Syrian man, Agron nibbled at the shell of an ear.  A sudden inhalation hissed between Nasir’s teeth.  Agron felt the following shiver against the length of his front.  “You are wild yet,” Agron insisted.

This pleased Nasir to hear.  “Lacking only in bite.”

Agron shook his head.  “Your teeth are sharp.  Only the strength to use them is absent.  It will not always be so.”

They spent the morning hours in the yard, weaving sleeping mats.  Their work drew Naevia and a few others.  As before, Agron did not attempt to instruct the newcomers.  Nasir was a patient guide -- far more so than Agron -- and it was only when Nasir’s own instruction faltered that Agron spoke correction.

After breaking their fast, many of the new weavers set out to collect rushes and reeds, leaving Agron and Nasir at a bit of a loss.  It was still too soon for Nasir to train, but he encouraged Agron to do so.  Lydon was agreeable to exercise and did not question why Agron chose the end of the yard furthest from where the Gaul and his woman clashed swords.  The wide swings of each novice attack reminded Agron of Nasir’s early lessons with Spartacus.

When Lydon was hailed to take a shift digging the new tunnel, Agron lowered himself to the temple steps beside Nasir.

“Did Camilla require aid?”

Nasir shook his head.  “Oenomaus yet rests.”

“Your wound?”

Scratching his scalp, Nasir winced.  “I grow weary of it.”  He gaze fell to the scar upon Agron’s upper chest.  “What of yours?”

Agron cocked his head, amused at the recollection of his screaming impatience for healing.  “A fucking epoch of frustration.”

Nasir chuckled.  Again, his fingers dug down through twisted locks to ease an itch.

“You’ll not rest well tonight if this continues.”

“I’m not to dampen my wrappings.  And left arm is yet restrained.”

“Would you accept assistance?”

“I had thought to ask Naevia.”

Agron’s brows arched and head cocked in disbelief.  “With no thought of me?”

Grinning, Nasir reached up to comb his fingers through Agron’s short hair.  “What know you of it?”

“My people twist locks of hair with every victory.”

“Yet yours is nearly shorn.”

Agron nodded even as his mouth formed a moue and memory tightened around his throat like a brutish, strangling hand.  “By loss that turns all other conquests to shadow of memory.”

Nasir furrowed his fingers through Agron’s hair again.  “You would grow it?” he gently asked.

Agron’s smile was soft and his voice low: “No.”

Hand sliding to cradle the back of Agron’s neck, Nasir accepted offer: “If you lend hands, I would wash.”

So Agron fetched the water pitcher, cloth, and basin from their room and brought all out into the sun.  Nasir shed his tunic and spread his thighs wide to accommodate the basin between them.  Bowing forward and bracing elbows upon knees, Nasir held position as Agron poured the cool water.  Nasir’s left arm was still denied full range of motion, but he was able to use right hand to help Agron dampen the strands.  Then Agron put the half-full pitcher aside and set to scrubbing Nasir’s scalp with blunt nails.

Nasir’s hands dangled between knees.  He hummed, tilting his head into Agron’s efforts when fingertips found a spot in need of additional attention.

“Naevia watches,” Nasir quietly remarked.

Agron was well aware that Naevia’s eyes weren’t the only ones fixed upon them.  Everyone in the yard and upon the portico fucking gawped.

Nasir prodded, “You and Crixus have yet to break words again?”

“I’ve suffered no recent wounds, have I?”

Slender shoulders rose and fell with silent laughter.  “Nor has Crixus, it would seem.  Would that I had heard your words to him.”

Agron’s hands paused, throat tightening.  “You have claim upon them.”

“Then I will hear them.  At later time.  Let us finish this chore.”

It was no chore for Agron despite the incredulous stares that tested his patience, but he poured the remaining water, wrung out the thick strands, and rubbed them free of excess water with cloth.  Agron held the damp locks lifted with right hand and, working together, they eased tangles free.

One day, Agron would procure a comb for Nasir.  Perhaps the next opportunity to acquire supplies would be accommodating.

That night, as they waited for sleep, Nasir observed, “Contrary to prior warnings, you share bed easily.”

“A pleasant surprise,” Agron admitted.

“To what do you attribute success?”

Agron paused.  “Would you claim words now?”

“I would.”

Agron spoke them, first in the words of his people, and then in common tongue: “Lying thus, I am able to hold my heart.”

Nasir did not breathe for a long moment.  “You broke words to this effect with Crixus?”

Mumbling against the skin of Nasir’s neck, Agron explained, “It was my intention to express… a like mind toward regard for another.  A man would give his all for the sake of his heart.”

Nasir’s hand turned in Agron’s grasp, fingers gripping tightly.

Over the following three days, as Agron was sent out on scouting duty, hunting, and scouting yet again.  Weaving was the manner in which Nasir occupied his time between assisting Camilla and helping Lucius make arrows.  Upon learning that Nasir had been in close proximity to a man who had expressed suspicion toward Nasir, Agron had sought out Spartacus.

“Agron, our supplies begin to dwindle yet again--”

“Do you send me out for supplies or for Lucius to question Nasir at fucking leisure?”

A small frown pinched Spartacus’ brow before the Thracian’s expression lifted with comprehension.  “Nasir expressed interest in making weapons.  He was set to task.”

“And you did not think it of importance to tell of Lucius’ misgivings?”

“I have spoken with Lucius.  And Lucius, having broken words with Nasir, now counts him as friend.”

Agron harrumphed, shaking his head in disbelief.  “So that was your plan.”

Spartacus answered with a sly look.  “In part.  Mira joined them as well.”

“Fuck the gods, Spartacus!”

The shout caused a few heads to turn, but as no Romans were within sight and outbursts from Agron -- especially while Nasir was absent his side -- were not uncommon, all quickly refocused upon their work.  Still, Agron lowered his voice, “Nasir does not even carry a dagger!”

“Something I hope you will remedy today.  As well as instructing him on its use in close quarters.”

Agron stood straighter, appeased.  And also rather satisfied with the assignment.  “I will see to it.”

He visited the supply stores -- they _****were****_  getting rather low in some things -- and Agron selected a knife with sheath.  He then headed for the rack of drying rushes and reeds where Nasir was collecting those gathered the day before, clearing way for the delivery of fresh pickings.

“Have you come to hold inspection?” Nasir asked with a grin that Agron was helpless to resist returning.

“Indeed.  Failure to meet with approval will result in most dire consequences.”

Nasir gave a breathy laugh, moving past with a light load cradled low in his arms, “Do I not risk such consequences sharing room with you every night?”

Agron bit the inside of his cheek to hold in the chuckle.  “Yet you continue to insist you possess good sense.”

“And you would know good sense upon sight?”

Agron’s brows arched with delight at the challenge.  “I do,” he assured Nasir.  “And a great many other good things.”

When Nasir cast a laughing gaze his way, Agron deliberately dropped his gaze to the man’s mouth.  Nasir paused and Agron enjoyed the line of the Syrian man’s smooth throat, the notch and shadows of collarbone, the planes of upper chest.  Raising his gaze, Agron grinned widely at the blush upon Nasir’s cheeks.

He was suddenly reminded of similar blushes.  And one in particular of distant past: days before they had taken the slaver’s wagon, had Agron not placed a hand upon Nasir’s shoulder and witnessed this very sight?

“Approval appears granted,” Nasir remarked.

Agron scooped up the remaining reeds and rushes and moved to crouch with Nasir beside the temple wall, apart from the activity.

“Or has failure prompted the dire consequence of suffering your assistance?” the Syrian man teased.

Agron flicked his ear.  “Neither.  Two pairs of hands will finish the task with twice the speed.  There is another thing Spartacus would have us do this day.”

“Where do we go?”

“Not far.”

“Yet you seem… pleased.”

Perhaps Nasir was correct to be so wary.  Doubly so when the mats had been woven -- and placed off to the side within the temple stores to await arrival of night -- and, with a nod, Agron gestured for Nasir to follow him down the corridor to their room.  Upon the threshold, Agron paused and drew the spare dagger from his belt -- it was a small knife that he and Lydon had taken from the wagon four days prior -- and presented it to Nasir.

The Syrian man took it with hesitation.  “I am to keep this concealed?”

“If that is to your advantage.  Having it at ready hand is of greater importance.”

“Then… we are here for what purpose?”

“Instruction on its use.”

“The yard does not provide adequate space?”

“Too much.”

The slight frown smoothed from Nasir’s brow.  “We will train in techniques used in smaller spaces?”

Agron nodded.

Nasir snorted.  “The arena prepared you for such fights?”

“No.  My chieftain’s fort was no fucking Roman villa.  Its corridors and chambers were narrow and dark and, in winter months, there was naught else to do but piss in the snow, trade insults, and fight.”

The gleam in Nasir’s eyes spoke of warrior spirit within.  “So we will fight.”

“We will train until you stand capable of gutting a man--”  Agron’s gaze lowered to the blade in Nasir’s grasp.  “--with naught but knife, speed, and leverage.”

Nasir’s brows lifted with anticipation.  “Begin!”

Agron gestured him through the curtain.  They stood the pallet up against the wall and folded up the sleeping mat.  Agron shrugged off his cloak and tossed that aside as well, and then began the lesson.

Shortly thereafter, he was questioning his ready acceptance of task, certain that Spartacus meant to torment him.

“Like so?” Nasir breathed against Agron’s lips as Agron pinned the man’s arms to the wall and the still-sheathed blade slid against the crease of Agron’s thigh, along the edge of his subligaria.

“I do not need to teach where to locate a man’s balls and cock,” Agron retorted, pulse pounding and jaw clenched.

Nasir’s huff of laughter bathed Agron’s throat.  “No, you do not.”  The sheath shifted to prove the point.

“However,” Agron continued, maintaining slow, even breaths.

Nasir hummed in invitation for him to finish the thought.

“Lower angle and set blade to flesh, slicing from back of thigh to front--”  He gritted his teeth against the whisper of sensation as Nasir blindly mimicked the maneuver.  “--you will cut a large vein, spilling enough blood to kill a man.”

“Quickly?”

“No.  It will take some time.  So, stab--”  Agron fought the urge to stiffen as Nasir followed the instruction, setting the point of sheath against sensitive flesh left uncovered by cup and cloth.  “--using not strength of arms but of legs and knees to send blade deep until opponent’s grasp is weakened, then slice--”  Again the sheath’s edge ghosted along inner thigh.  “--and strike with shoulder to make escape.”

“Simple, is it not?”  Nasir grinned, his eyes glittering with fire.

“Then perhaps a harder lesson?”

“It is very hard?”

The sheathed blade retreated with a deliberate caress.  Agron cast a warning look.

Nasir’s grin widened.

In answer, Agron took half a step back and grabbed Nasir’s throat with one hand.  “You will use the support of opponent’s grasp to his disadvantage.  Place blade at groin.”

Nasir complied.

“Both hands.”

“I am equally skilled with use of one.”

Fuck the gods.  “You will use two.  Hot blood is slick; grasp may slip.”

Nasir gazed upon Agron’s mouth.  “Hot blood?”

Agron was going to kill Spartacus.  “If you desire that it be heated further, continue casting fucking look.”

“Apologies.”  The little shit was not even attempting to bite back a smile.  “I will use opponent’s grip?”

Agron coached Nasir to drop his weight as he sliced upward.  “Pull back before blade is caught in ribs or breastbone.  Use shoulder to push--”

Nasir twisted, bumping his shoulder against Agron’s chest and forcing him back a small step.

“Good.  Again.”

Agron alternated between grabbing Nasir’s arm and throat until defense came with satisfactory skill.

“Would that I could use left hand so well,” Nasir lamented when Agron’s hands dropped to his sides.

Agron was well aware that Nasir spoke of the wound that would not be fully healed for some time yet, but he could not resist challenging, “Boasts of skilled hands prove false already?”

Nasir bared teeth, tilting chin up and daring Agron closer.  “Those who would have knowledge of such are no longer of this world.”

“If your aim is to warn, then target is missed.”  Agron lunged, grabbing Nasir’s left arm, and the sheathed blade moved quickly to neither-stab-nor-slit flesh.  The hard shove of Nasir’s shoulder had Agron stumbling back on a chuckle.

Nasir joined in and Agron lifted both hands to the man’s face, hunching down for a quick kiss.  A reward for both of them.

He assisted Nasir with fitting sheath to belt and then they returned to the yard.  Spartacus caught Agron’s gaze and Agron nodded once.

After evening meal, as Agron sought a replacement for the mat in their room, which was beginning to wear and fray, Nasir went on ahead.  Agron lingered in selecting a new mat, one that Nasir had made that day and which was appreciably wider than the rest.  Spartacus passed by and they shared a glance.  Agron helped himself to a length of fabric before moving into the corridor.  He turned the corner just in time to see Spartacus pinning Nasir to the wall with hand upon throat, Nasir’s new knife -- now unsheathed -- was angled threateningly against the Thracian’s belly.

“Good,” Spartacus approved, clearly pleased.  Taking a step back, he evaluated Nasir’s progress: “Speed is sufficient.  Accuracy will come with continued practice.”

“A task for morning,” Agron agreed.

Spartacus’ lips twitched.  “You require excuse to delay a day’s work?”

Agron rolled his eyes.  “Task _****is****_  work.”

“And you saw to yours today.”

“You stand surprised,” Nasir replied.

The Thracian chuckled.  “I do, indeed.”  Bidding them a good night, Spartacus took his leave.

“Hmm,” Nasir began, gaze still upon the corner Spartacus had turned before moving out of sight, “perhaps he would entrust us with shared charge.”

That was Agron’s hope.  But it would have to wait a while longer.  He reached for Nasir’s chin, gently tilting the man’s face up for a soft kiss.  “Well done, Nasir.”

He beamed.  “We will train again tomorrow?”

“Yes.  There are yet more techniques you are able to employ despite wound.”

“You would show me all of them?”

“There is nothing I possess that I do not willingly share.”  With a caress of thumb to stubbled jaw, Agron entered their room and set to arranging their new bedding.  The old mat was rolled up and placed against the wall, pressed tightly by pallet.  Over top, Agron laid the new mat and finally the cloth, which was large enough to be a cloak.  Twitching the nearest corner of cloth flat, Agron glanced over his shoulder to gauge Nasir’s reaction to the widened bed.  “Well?”

“You are a man of ingenuity.”

“And a pretty face as well!”

Nasir sank to his knees and reached for Agron, setting palms to cheeks and urging mouths to meet.  Nasir pressed lingering kisses to Agron’s lips, his hands shifting to comb fingers through Agron’s hair and Agron raised his own hands to cradle Nasir’s jaw, returning each slow, shallow kiss for one in kind until his body was humming with speeding blood and heated flush.

The quiet hum that vibrated in Nasir’s throat coaxed Agron’s thumbs to smooth over his high cheekbones.  Agron’s lips trailed over chin and jaw, nibbling.

“Do you take rest in subligaria?” Nasir asked suddenly.

Agron froze.  “I would.”

“Despite bed covering?”

“I have fought bare-assed in middle of night before.  It is not advantageous.”

Nasir frowned.  “You believe our location will be discovered?”

“It will, but _****when****_  I know not.”

Nasir’s hands fell to grip Agron’s arms.  “I would begin training with sword again.”

“Soon,” Agron agreed, lowering hand to brush fingertips over the bandage, staying well clear of wound beneath.  Nasir looked away, jaw locked.  “Time will not be wasted,” Agron promised.  “When the Romans come, I would have you as skilled at battle out-of-doors as within.”

“They will gain entry to the temple.”

“If their numbers are great enough.”

“For what purpose do we linger here?”

“Plans are set toward increasing our ranks.”

Nasir squinted in thought.  “So that we may draw the Romans in?”

Agron laughed.  “You’ve good sense of strategy.”

“And other things.”

Agron bit back a challenging retort.  It was late and he would do better to concede: “A wild, wary creature may not bite to wound, but he does nip to sting.”

“Bid me halt and take respite,” Nasir invited with a boyish grin.

Agron’s smile was made lopsided in its attempt to balance both warmth and pride.  “Never.”

 


	10. Liberation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting notes: comments spoken in German (or the equivalent of the time period) are in BOLD and UNDERLINED

 

The task of replenishing supplies would not wait.  Agron sought out Lydon the following morning with intention toward another raid.  They would depart after breaking their fast.

As the Iberian joined the line to receive morning’s portion, Agron noted the fall of approaching footsteps.

“Successful venture, swift return,” Nasir said with a strained smile.

In effort to ease terse lines bracketing mouth, Agron traced the clothed edge of the Syrian’s shoulder.  “I would not dare disappoint,” he teased and Nasir’s grin was made genuine.

They washed face, neck, arms, and hands at the barrel of fresh water in temple shadow.  Swiping droplets from beard stubble and sifting wet fingers through short hair, Agron watched mesmerized as Nasir shook damp, curling locks from brow.

This, however, dislodged the leather cord restraining the man’s hair which fell forward in a wanton cascade.  Nasir hissed in irritation.

Chuckling, Agron scooped up the dropped tie and gestured for Nasir to turn around.  He made quick work of trapping the strands in another series of twists.  Agron had just completed tying the leather thong in place when Fulco swaggered past.

“See how she tends to babe!”

Nasir stiffened, chin jutting forward in silent challenge.

Agron’s hands lifted away from their completed charge and clenched.

Fulco jeered, “Are all warriors from lands east of the Rhine so gifted?  Mother Agron!”

Agron’s lips stretched into a toothy grin.  In the next instant, his fist found the Celt’s jaw.  Fulco stumbled, twisting around to deliver an answering blow.  Agron knocked it aside and struck again.  

The Celt staggered out of range.

Standing his ground, Agron snarled: “Speak either fucking jest again and the mother you cry for will be your own!”

Fulco spat blood upon ground and brayed a laugh in Agron’s face and, had a familiar figure engaged in near-silent scuffle not drawn Agron’s gaze, he would have continued pummeling the fucking fool, but--

Agron spun around, the entire fucking world narrowing down to the sight of Nasir and the Gaul locked in deadly embrace.

“Remove fucking hands!” Agron roared.

Nasir twisted and butted against the fucking Gaul’s chest.  Releasing Nasir’s forearms as he took retreating step, the shit-eating fuck chuckled.  Fucking chortled.

Agron advanced a single step before Nasir’s smirk halted feet.  The man shifted aside, revealing blade in hand.  Heh.  Fucking Syrians!

“I but move to ensure friend of Naevia’s remains untrampled by oafish feet--”  The Gaul grinned at Nasir with approval.  “--and nearly have belly gutted for the trouble.”

Onlookers huffed and twittered with amusement.  Including Fulco, who was proudly wiping at his split lip.

Fuck the gods.  That fuck of a Celt had drawn both Agron and Nasir out, knowing Agron would rise to offered bait and leave Nasir open to mock attack.

Well.  Nasir clearly stood fucking capable of his own defense.  Agron would fucking enjoy how he chose to finish the fight.

“Another test,” Nasir commented, meeting the Gaul’s gaze.  “One we all either pass… or fail.”

“As Fulco yet lives, the effort was clearly halfhearted at best,” Donar wryly observed from the ring of bystanders.

Fulco received friendly criticism with customary grace, gesturing bluntly for Donar to bend over and take cock up ass.

Agron laughed and kicked Fulco in the rump toward the water.  “Wash mouth, you fucking shit.”

Yet in good spirits, Fulco trotted toward the barrel.

The Gaul shook his head and, giving Nasir’s shoulder a congratulatory pat, moved toward the water barrel as well.  Agron ignored him in favor of bestowing the full measure of his pride upon Nasir with a beaming grin.

“I need yet more practice,” Nasir complained, cheeks flushed with pleasure at the minor victory.

Agron huffed, wrapped an arm around Nasir’s shoulders, and tilted their brows together.  “Stay not your hand against anyone foolish enough to lay theirs upon you.”

Nasir’s wide smile saw Agron on his way alongside Lydon who, surprisingly, chose to make comment: “The little Syrian makes swift gains.”

“Would that his fucking dominus yet lived,” Agron growled, humor fading and twisting until he _****ached****_  for blood, “so that the fuck might die by Nasir’s hand.”

Lydon nodded, eyes gleaming.  “Such a thing I would gladly witness.”

Unless Pluto ejected the Roman fuck from Taratus and tossed his worthless hide once more into the land of the living, the shit sack would not be killed a second time.

Pity.

Still, Agron witnessed many worthwhile endeavors during the following week: a genuine door of solid wood barring temple gate, the completion of tunnel leading from temple cellar, a roof over every head -- both those within the temple itself and within its yard where simple wood-frame-and-fabric structures now lined temple wall.

And another happy development: Nasir was able to take up sword and resume simple exercises.  Agron said nothing when Naevia invited Nasir to join her in morning training.  Nor did Nasir ask Agron for leave to do so.

“You do not mind that the Gaul barks orders at your boy?” Donar pressed in a tone that suggested both that Agron was too dim to realize the fact and that Donar was pressing fortune in bringing issue to his attention.

Agron shrugged.  “No more than the fucking Gaul minds.”

“By the gods.  The two of you can be of like mind on some matters.”

Agron snorted.  “One or two, perhaps.  I would not estimate a greater number.”

This was proved true when Spartacus entreated the Gaul to accompany them to Neapolis on the morrow.

“I remain with Naevia,” the man mulishly insisted.

Agron gazed out into the night, declining to offer opinion.  On the eve of the very mission Agron had fought for, he refused to be drawn into a fight.  Would he but keep mouth closed, all would go as planned.

The Gaul walked away before Spartacus could wring additional words from the man.  “It is settled, then; Lucius, Agron, Donar, and myself are for Neapolis to risk life and cause to add to our ranks.”

Agron enjoyed the sour look on Lucius’ face.  Donar bumped Agron’s arm and they shared unrestrained grins.

Spartacus sighed.  “We set foot to path after breaking our fast.”

Long accustomed to the tone Spartacus employed for dismissal, Agron happily returned to the room he shared with Nasir.

Agron reached for the curtain and froze on the threshold.

Nasir was crouching upon the bed bare-chested.  Completely bare-chested.  Unwound bandages bunched in fist.  Far from appearing startled by Agron’s arrival, Nasir met his gaze with a fierce scowl.

“I do not heal fucking fast enough!” he hissed, fingers clenching around the dingy wrappings.

Agron crossed slowly to their low bed, which was still a piled construct of pallet, mats, and cloth.  He sank down beside Nasir, keeping his gaze upon Nasir’s face with great effort that was aided when he cupped the man’s chin.

“You heal,” Agron reminded him.  “No small thing that I would thank the gods for.”  If Agron could but convince himself that the act of doing so would not draw their attention and, swiftly to follow, their ire.  He dared not take the risk.

Nasir blew out a breath.  “And it is no small thing that you attempt on the morrow.  Those who whisper of it tell it is impossible.”

Just as finding and rescuing a single woman from the mines had been impossible.  Agron did not offer a reminder.

Dark eyes blazing, Nasir insisted, “I would be at your side.”

Robbed of words, Agron pressed his brow to Nasir’s.  Drawing in a breath, he asked, “I would set eyes upon wound, if you agree.”

Nasir hesitated only briefly before nodding.

Agron leaned back and smoothed his hand gently down Nasir’s left arm, which moved aside to give unobstructed view.  Gazing upon the new, pink flesh and slender scab, Agron found himself stunned.

“Eighteen days,” Nasir bit out.  “Camilla tells I require eighteen more.”

“Nasir, you are of the fucking gods.”

“You mock me.”

Eyes wide, Agron coughed, “Were I a fucking fool.”

Nasir’s lips twitched into a helpless smile before compressing with disappointment.  “Yet I still cannot accompany you.”

“Nasir…”

“I am useless.  I cannot even wear hair secured absent aid!”

Agron grabbed for Nasir’s left hand before the man could reach up and tear at leather cord.  “Nasir!” Agron rasped, truly alarmed now.  “Take pause.”

He placed Nasir’s left palm over the heart within Agron’s chest and pressed his own hand atop it.  He waited as the Syrian’s breaths slowed and deepened.  Tension slowly eased from shoulders.  Nasir tilted his face up and Agron searched his gaze for--

“Apologies--”

Agron covered Nasir’s lips with his own, brushing and nibbling.  “None owed,” he insisted, nudging Nasir’s hair back over his shoulder to pet revealed skin with fingertips.

Though Nasir angled head to allow greater range of touch, he was yet troubled.  “I am free to seek purpose of my own choosing, yet I merely envy you yours.”

“No.  You heal.  Your body strengthens.”  At this remark, Agron drew a lazy fingertip around the edge of a large bruise high upon Nasir’s right shoulder at arm’s joint -- a blemish acquired recently in during lessons on use of knife.  “And your skill shall soon surpass all others.”

Nasir laughed, flat and joyless.  “A student surpass his teacher?”

Now caressing the joining of ear and jaw, Agron nudged Nasir’s chin.  The words he would say of enough importance to warrant the full weight of gaze.  “I invite you to claim fucking purpose.”

Finally, a heartfelt smile emerged.  Nasir hummed.  “I am impatient.”

Agron chuckled, nodding.  “As have I been known to be on rarest occasion.”

Nasir’s right hand drifted up the edge of Agron’s cloak to curl around back of neck.  “You await something of importance?”

Jaw clenching, Agron nodded once more.

Eyes sparkling with sudden joy, Nasir lifted chin, bringing mouth to Agron’s for a languid kiss.  “As you find yourself possessed of such force of will, then so too shall I.”

Agron bumped his nose against Nasir’s ear and exhaled slowly, fingertips resuming caresses upon the warm, smooth skin of the Syrian man’s neck.  Agron dared to press an open-mouthed kiss to flesh that had once been concealed beneath slave collar.  A soft moan escaped Nasir’s throat, fingers reaffirming their grip upon the corded muscles at Agron’s nape.

“You must return from Neapolis,” Nasir softly ordered.

Agron nodded.

“Absent wounds.”

Another nod.  A touch of tongue to thrumming pulse.  “Successful venture, swift return,” Agron mumbled.

“Fuck the venture if doing so permits all the rest.”

Agron lifted his head from the fragrant warmth of bare neck.  “It is not impossible to achieve all.”

Nasir huffed.  Smiled.  Massaged Agron’s neck.  “I await proof of boast.”

Agron accepted the challenge readily.  One last, lingering yet chaste kiss upon warm lips lengthened the moment… and then Agron allowed it to slip from grasp.  “Come, we must dress wound and take rest.”

As any argument Nasir would have presented would have merely delayed slumber, no protest beyond a weary sigh was forthcoming.  Poultice gently applied and a length of new cloth wound snugly around Nasir’s belly, Agron shifted toward the wall.  With each passing night, Nasir was able to uncurl his body increment by increment.  Soon, he would be free to lie however he liked.

A happening that Agron was greatly anticipating.  If for no other reason than to experience the novelty of Nasir’s breath upon bare neck and chest.  A thigh atop his.  One hand tucked up along ribs and the other draped across chest.  Whichever way Nasir would prefer to lay upon their bed would be gladly received.

Agron gave no thought to exchanging farewells the next morning.  They tended to daily fucking chores.  They broke their fast in fucking silence.  Words continued to escape Agron even when the time to part ways loomed over both of them.

A shared look.

A touch upon face.

A brief kiss.

A hand upon his arm.  Agron delayed at the touch and watched spellbound as Nasir slid the tunic from his own shoulders and held it out in offering.  “I would have you return this to me,” he rasped, “in good repair.”

Chuckling, Agron shrugged off his cloak and wrapped it around Nasir’s much narrower shoulders.  “I’ll not ask the same.”

Nasir’s brow arched in expectation.

Agron concluded, “On condition that the blade which pierces cloth does not also meet flesh.”

The Syrian bit back a grin as he sighed heavily.  “If that stands as sole condition, so be it.”

Nasir bossily threaded Agron’s arms through the offered shirt.  A tunic on Nasir, it served as little more than a vest upon Agron.  But with the pulse-racing scent of the man tickling Agron’s nose, he found no complaints at all to voice.

Their final glimpse of each other was bridged by their lips curled in smiles.

As the trees closed ranks, concealing both clearing and temple, Donar made attempt to rile him: “How is it your boy has not tired of you yet?”

“I would answer,” Agron replied, rallying his spirit in anticipation of the task ahead, “but I fear it will lend _****you****_  no aid, you crass shit.”

Donar guffawed in disbelief.  “Says the sour fuck.”

On these remarks, Spartacus and Lucius gave no comment.

They reached the city of Neapolis late.  The misting rain that had dampened their path from sunset onward thickened to a ceaseless downpour.  Agron was glad for excuse to don one of Lucius’ overlarge cloaks, which additionally served to conceal the extent of Agron’s armament.

Spartacus and Donar lingered in wharf’s shadows as Agron and Lucius approached the port lodgings.  The distant roll of thunder accompanied their steps.  Putting fist to weathered door, Agron waited for response and then spoke to the slave who answered: “I seek the captain of a ship carrying slaves captured in battle.  My dominus would have words.”

“I know the captain you seek, but he has just taken rest.”

“If promise of profit pleases him more, he would thank you to wake him.”

The slave, past his prime and possessed of wiry strength, looked from Agron’s scowl to the hooded figure of Lucius beyond.  “You may wait within.”

Agron moved aside to let Lucius pass before following.  His stomach churned at the stench that assaulted nose: stagnant water, rotted wood, brine, sweat, stale drink and old vomit.  The building itself was not so different from the one Agron and Duro had been kept in for months.  Nightly brawls to the screeching and clamoring of the crowd.  Bruises upon fists and flesh never fading.  Empty bellies and a bucket for piss and shit in the corner of squalid stall.

Lucius moved toward the hearth as if it were his right to claim warmth and comfort.  Agron stood guard.

The slaver emerged from a shadowed room, disheveled and filthy, eyes measuring their worth to estimate what amount of coin they might carry.

Though Agron was still wary of Lucius -- the man had not broken words with Agron regarding his change of opinion toward Nasir -- the old Roman used his skill with words to set foot upon deck of slaver’s ship.  This very skill, which now aided their purpose, stood as the reason Agron did not trust him fully.  Even if the craggy shit were to accept Nasir as brother, Agron would not put weight upon his words.

But betrayal at a time and place such as this seemed unlikely.  The guards were few, Agron noted, counting their number from beneath his hood.  Spartacus and Donar would easily ensure their eternal silence.

The ship captain caught the pouch of coin tossed by Lucius.  “Short of time, long of coin,” the vile creature observed with a leer.  “What form of slave do you seek?”

“I have a desire towards fighting men.”

“Ah!  Gladiators!  I’ve supplied Rome with many of its finest champions.  Sadly, with the arena in Capua gone, there is less interest in men possessed of such talents.”

“Fortunate for my cause, then,” Lucius remarked, keeping the attention of the slaver and ship guards trained upon his form and away from Spartacus and Donar who even now advanced, gaining position for attack.  “Come.  Let us see how you can further aid me.”

Agron sneered as the captain’s greed granted them entry to ship’s stinking hold.  The hatch lowered as Agron moved down the ladder, his gaze sweeping the sopping, weathered planks one final time before shutting out the rain from overhead.

Lucius had but to delay the slaver fuck long enough for Spartacus and Donar to finish work above deck before the rest of the crew could be taken.  The guards numbered three within the hull of chained prisoners.  The slaver himself would present less challenge.

“Forgive the stench,” the captain said.  “Savages from east of the Rhine tend to favor their own shit.”

The confirmation that this was the ship Agron had anticipated added swagger to his step as he passed the long bench of captives, searching for one who would stand out as leader.  The man was easy to spot: a massive beast with hatred in his eyes.

Agron paused, casting sidelong glance and speaking quickly in native tongue, ****“ Your suffering comes to an end, brother.”****

In guarded tone, the man challenged, ****“ You share our tongue.”****

 ** **“ And your blood.  Prepare yourself,”**** Agron advised as the captain blathered on, scenting only the promise of coin amid rank stink of unwashed bodies.   ** **“ I would see you free.”****

Without raising voice, he answered, ****“ The bearded fuck knows our tongue as well.”****  His gaze flickering over Agron’s shoulder was all the warning required.

The guard’s sword sliced through the air above Agron’s head as he ducked, turned, and shoved the man back with a roar.  Lucius struck the nearest man down with a dagger.  A guard was pinned at the bars of the stern cell.  The hatch opened, admitting Spartacus and Donar.  Blades and shackles clanked.  The big man Agron had addressed crushed the neck of a guard with only his chains and bare hands.  The fight was brief and the stench of steaming blood mingled with the rest.

“Keys, quickly!” Spartacus called.  “Release them!”

As Agron worked at the lock upon the largest man’s wrists, he received compliment: ****“ Your men fight well.”****

Agron swiftly corrected him, ****“ These are not my men.  We follow Spartacus.”****

A stout warrior observed of Spartacus in heavily accented common tongue, “You are not of our lands.”

Spartacus readily admitted such and invited all to join him in seeing the Romans pay for the grief they had caused.

The big man turned back to Agron, confirming with words of native tongue that he grasped meaning mostly from Spartacus’ fierce tone and expression: ****“ Spill more Roman blood?”****

Agron nodded.

This pleased the man greatly, who called out to his brothers, ****“ Cock hardens at the fucking thought!”****

A cheer went up and Agron sent a grin Spartacus’ way, providing a pale translation in common tongue, “He says they are with us.”

Fuck the gods, they had gained a formidable number of skilled warriors in a single move.  Excitement overwhelmed Agron as he turned back to his people and shouted, ****“ Go, brothers!  Take leave of this fucking ship!”****

Another cheer roused the freed Germans and Agron pivoted to face Spartacus, chin high and smile bright.

“A fortunate thing,” Spartacus commented, “that we liberate a ship filled with your people.”

Your people.  Yes, these men and women were Agron’s people.  Though Donar’s company had been welcome among fucking Celts and shit-eating Gauls, Donar had been too long absent homeland to share Agron’s passion for their customs.  What love of homeland that life among the Romans had not squeezed from the man’s heart, lack of kin among the rebels had pushed aside.

Now, that was changed.

Agron clasped Spartacus’ shoulders in victory.  “The gods favor us.  No longer will we have to listen to those fucking Gauls again!”  Laughing, Agron moved past him to call out in celebration one more time.  

The noisy veil of incessant rain concealed their departure from the docks.  The dismal and disagreeable weather a blessing that made the most difficult aspect of the mission a success.  Once they reached the shelter of wooded lands, the sun emerged, kissing rain-washed skin and soaked rags warm and dry.

They returned after noon, Spartacus and Lucius leading the way through the wooden gates.  Agron was pleased to see a smile upon Donar’s face as he made reacquaintance with words long unused and manner of jests unshared by the men of the ludus.

Agron ushered the group into the yard, unable to stop a boyish giggle when the one named Lugo called out with arms spread in hearty German greeting, ****“ Come!  Let us embrace and call ourselves brothers!”****

A moment of uncertain silence followed, broken by the sound of swift footsteps descending the temple stairs.  “You’ve done the impossible!” Nasir noted, grinning.

Giggling, low and free of cares, yet again -- it was a day for such fucking joy -- Agron moved to answer the greeting with long strides and arms outstretched.

Nasir allowed the firm grasp upon his face as Agron pressed an enthusiastic kiss to his lips.  The feel of Nasir’s right arm banding across his shoulders in tight embrace had Agron’s cheeks stretched to painful limit with wide smile, his throat tickling with laughter he could not stay.  Fuck the gods, he had indeed returned in possession of life, health, and bold fucking purpose!

Sedullus’ booming voice called him back from the warmth of Nasir’s unrestrained embrace: ****“ We must lift cup!”****

With arm curled around Nasir’s shoulders and himself placed between them, Agron broke disappointing news to Sedullus, ****“ We have only water.”****

The giant of a man winced in distaste and Agron glimpsed a flicker of amusement on Nasir’s face.  Agron had taught him the word for water, so the Syrian man had likely guessed correctly at the cause of such look.

 ** **“ For the best,”**** a man of average height and strength said as he stepped forward.   ** **“ Sedullus is a beast when sober and a beastly fool when turned to drink!”****

Agron laughed with the others.  Beneath his arm, Nasir’s shoulder’s remained still absent movement of humor.

Sedullus grumbled, ****“ Little Nemetes…”****  Curling a long arm around Nemetes’ bare shoulders, he wrested the man into a brief headlock.   ** **“ Speaks fucking truth!”****

By the gods, Agron had missed his people.  He gently shook Nasir’s shoulder and finally felt the man’s breathy laugh against his side.  With a friendly clap to the shoulder Nasir had angled beneath Agron’s arm, he glanced toward the Syrian to share a grin and assurance that all was well.

Warriors from the lands east of the Rhine were neither quiet nor faint of heart.  And with so many standing as strangers, Agron could not fault anyone for keeping safe distance.  His people were boisterous, as Nasir quickly realized when Lugo lifted him off of his feet in brotherly embrace.

Agron paused in turning toward the next man, taking a moment to watch for pained wince, but there was none.  Nasir readily offered his arm to the next of Agron’s kin.

Agron was so proud of Nasir.  Though able to use only a few words, he paid great respect to Agron’s people: smiling in welcome and offering hand in friendship.  Truly, nothing could have pleased him more.  Except perhaps if that fucking Gaul had removed himself from sight.

But Agron would not cast ill look his way.  Regardless of temptation, Agron had not the time.  Not if he alone was to see to the comforts of their newest members.

Spartacus found him in the temple cellar as he sliced additional portions for roasting at the meal fire.  “The last of our meat,” Agron said, gesturing with dagger tip.  Grinning and shaking his head in bemusement, he admitted, “I had forgotten how much my kin devour upon a sitting.”

“Much seems to have slipped mind of late.”

Agron paused and took step back.  Facing Spartacus, he slowly reminded the Thracian, “You sent me to scout Neapolis and report an opportunity.  Their ship provided it.”

“Were there any others that would have afforded the same?”

“Two,” Agron replied tersely, his elation fading completely as Spartacus’ intent became clear.  “One from Damascus… the other Gallia.”

“Of these I would have cared to know.”

Agron did not see how it would have made difference.  Especially regarding men from Damascus.

“And Gallia?” Spartacus pressed.

Agron’s resolve hardened.  “I would not have these ranks filled with Gauls.  Crixus--”

“Is an honorable man,” the Thracian insisted, each word given weight.

And Agron’s kin were found lacking in comparison?

Shock at such an insult -- and from Spartacus, no less! -- robbed Agron of both words and voice to utter them.

As Spartacus shifted to face Agron fully, Agron’s chin rose.  

“I would take your brothers to hunt when day breaks,” the Thracian said, “to replenish supply.”

Agron’s jaw clenched.  Shoulders tensed.  He shifted his weight, ears hearing the words Spartacus spoke of bonding with the newcomers and Agron’s aid in translation, but Agron’s mind could not focus beyond the earlier offense.  Fuck the gods, if striking a blow would reverse harsh words, Agron would not hesitate to land it.

But thoughts of Nasir rose to forefront of mind; Agron had successfully defended the Syrian’s honor to Lucius and Mira with words spoken absent passion.  Now his people required the same.

To Spartacus’ retreating back, Agron calmly insisted, “They will prove great asset.”  At the Thracian’s pause and backward glance, he added, “I give you my word.”

It was neither accepted nor declined.  Spartacus made no further comment, taking his leave to rejoin evening meal above.  Agron watched him go, suddenly recalling another time -- not long ago -- when Agron’s word had proved false.  Fuck.  Would he never be free of the lie spoken of Naevia’s fate?

His mouth tightened into a frown.

This may be Agron’s last chance to retain what regard Spartacus yet held for his abilities and counsel.  If Agron could not prove to be a man of his word in this, he would not be much of a man at all in the Thracian’s view.

He must show all that the people from his homelands were of value -- far greater value than those fucking Gauls had ever been.

Agron lifted dagger again and returned to task of butchering meat, this time with a great weight upon shoulders.

… which did not lighten when it came time to distribute sleeping mats to Agron’s charges.  Nasir passed a mat to the final set of waiting hands and, smiling, nodded to the lone item he yet carried.  “And the last one is not required,” he informed Agron.

Agron put out a hand to stop him from returning it to the stores.  “I would use it.”

Nasir frowned for a moment before his brow lifted.  “Ah.  This is a custom of your people.”

Though sorely tempted to lie, Agron admitted, “No.  But I would remain near should I be needed.”

“Then I shall remain also.”

“No,” Agron said again, more quietly.  “I would have you take rest in our room.”

Nasir stiffened, a look unlike anything Agron had ever seen flickering briefly upon the Syrian man’s features.  “To what end?”

“Your comfort and sound rest.”

Nasir’s gaze moved over the yard as men and women settled themselves within the shelters and at fireside.  “And you will also rest?”

Agron smiled, warmed by Nasir’s concern.  “Yes.  Do not concern yourself.”  He pressed a kiss to the center of Nasir’s forehead.  “Go.  Take rest.”

With visible reluctance, Nasir retreated a step, answering Agron’s encouraging smile with one of uncertainty before turning and climbing the steps.  Agron watched him go, waiting until his form disappeared.  He then moved to claim a space upon the ground, finding the man called Lugo watching him.

He broke words in the tongue of lands east of the Rhine: ****“ Your boy has wound.”****

****“ Yes.  You are fortunate your embrace caused him no pain; he would have taken your balls.”** **

Lugo grinned.   ** **“ He is too small to be in battle.  Was injury caused when you wrested him from the arms of another?”****

Agron glowered.   ** **“ He was struck by a fucking Roman sword while fighting beside Spartacus.  Protecting two others.”****

 ** **“ Ah,”**** Lugo remarked, doubt lingering in his gaze at the claim.   ** **“ And where stood you?”****

****“ Absent his side.”** **

****“ As now, eh?”** **

****“ There are no Romans.”** **

****“ Yet you worry.  It is understandable.  Our kinship remains untested.”****  Lugo reached over and patted Agron’s arm.   ** **“ Do what you must to protect your boy.  Though I pity your cock its dissatisfaction.”****

Agron’s cock was not the only part of him to know dissatisfaction.  He lay awake most of the night, scowling up at the sky to the sounds of fucking, some originating from within the shelters and others… nearer.

Agron heaved a weary sigh, bones aching.

He disliked lying upon back after so many nights spent curled around Nasir.  The earth beneath him was too still and cold and hard, possessing no breath, warmth, or life to lull him to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nasir’s healing time: OK, really trying to keep things in line with the feel of the pace of the TV show rather than realism. So, I’m just as impressed as Agron is that he’s come so far so quickly.
> 
> Back during Agron’s AU encounter with Mira (when she almost-kinda accuses Nasir of conspiring with Chadara), Agron learned the value of confronting accusations with a level head. Personally, I was pretty surprised that Agron didn’t lose his cool (in the TV show) in the temple cellar when Spartacus basically says he would have preferred rescuing Gauls to Germans. So I thought there could have been an earlier incident that Agron drew from to control his knee-jerk reaction.
> 
> Oh, also. When Agron translates Sedullus’ enthusiasm for killing Romans -- like, it’s one of my favorite Agron Moments because it is hilariously understated and tactful and Agron is totally not the kind of guy to generally subscribe to either, you know? (^_~)


	11. Agron's Kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Episode 2x07 things (attempted NCS, violence, gore, death)
> 
> Formatting: "German" is in BOLD and UNDERLINED

 

With light of false dawn came relief.  Finally, Agron could escape his wretched, solitary confinement.  He rose to sounds of quiet activity among his countrymen and returned his mat to temple stores.  Upon reentering the yard, he bathed briefly at the water barrel, looking up to the alarming sight of Sedullus and Nemetes emerging from the temple with spears in hand.

Jogging over, Agron opened his mouth to speak--

 ** **“ Come, brother!”**** Sedullus invited, offering Agron a spear as if the thing were his for both the taking and bestowing.   ** **“ Let us stretch our two legs to catch something with four!”****

The man turned away before Agron could bid them wait while he fetched Spartacus.  The hunting party was already moving toward the gate, faces bright with smiles, eager for the taste of freedom.

Mouth stretching into a grin, Agron followed.

Sedullus led the way and, despite his lack of familiarity with his surroundings, the others deferred to him.  It was no matter of importance as they took a wild goat and boar, but when the sound of wheels and hoof beats caused everyone to pause, Agron knew a moment of genuine apprehension.  He reached for Sedullus’ arm, drawing the man’s dark glower from the unseen road nearby.

****“ Come away back to the temple.  There is much work to be done.”** **

****“**** ** **I would spill Roman blood**** ** **,”****  Sedullus growled, ****“ in proper fucking welcome to this place.”****  With a wave to the others, they advanced upon the wagon.

Agron hesitated for brief a moment before taking up position.  It was only one wagon.  Their forces were sufficient.  And the supplies would be welcome.

Besides, it would afford Agron the opportunity to evaluate their skills… which were formidable.  The attack was swift and sure.  They left none alive.

Setting foot to path, hands laden with plunder, the group tromped toward the temple.  Agron was grinning in anticipation of the fucking Gaul’s first challenge to Sedullus -- it would come sooner or later Agron was sure -- when he glimpsed figures moving through the trees ahead.

Spartacus, Lucius, and the Gaul.

“Agron!”

Amusement dimmed at their dour expressions.  Sedullus cast a sneering grin Agron’s way at the Thracian’s nonplussed frown.

“You hunt without me,” Spartacus chided, “when you _****knew****_  my intention.”

“They woke before the sun and were eager to take advantage of freedom.”  Surely, Spartacus could understand that.  But if he did, his stare gave no indication.

Sedullus broke words in German: ****“ We fill the day while you sleep with your woman.”****

Agron grinned along with the laughter of the hunting party, but he felt no genuine humor.  He himself would have much preferred to spend the night with his arm around Nasir.  But had he done so, Sedullus would have likely left to hunt without Agron as well.

With a light but reprimanding slap to the man’s arm, Agron ordered, ****“ In words they understand.”****

Sedullus relented with a showy grin, “We hunt.  Catch meat.”  He reached for the head of the goat draped over his shoulders, lifting it as proof of his claim.

“And Roman drink!” Lugo roared, lifting a wine pouch in each hand to the approval of the others.

Agron did not join them in merriment this time.  For good fucking reason.

When Lugo tossed one to Spartacus in offering, the Thracian’s reaction mirrored Agron’s initial misgivings… which Agron had quickly discarded.

The Gaul remarked, “I did not know this forest was stocked with such.”

“How did you come by this?” Spartacus demanded.

Feeling the attention of the hunting party upon the exchange, Agron lifted his chin and boldly replied, “A wagon along the road.”

“You attacked the road?  So close to our position absent proper weapons?”  Spartacus tossed the wine pouch to the ground.

Agron made no effort to defend their actions.  What could he say?  It had happened so quickly.  Sedullus’ mind had been set.  Agron had readily participated.  Besides, none of their group had taken injury.

“No one see,” Sedullus boasted in the language of Rome.  “All dead.”

Spartacus was equally unimpressed by this claim.

Lifting a brow in sarcasm at the chilly reception of such glad news, Sedullus gestured for his kin to follow.   ** **“ Let us prepare feast!  And show these sour fucks how to pull cock from ass!”****

Agron did not react to the German words or the laughter.  Lugo scooped up the discarded pouch of wine and Agron held ground while the hunting party filed past.

As Spartacus approached, Agron drew a fortifying breath.

“I’m glad I risked my life for this lot,” Lucius opined.

“They see us to proper force,” Agron insisted, but even as the words left his mouth he knew they would make no difference in altering Spartacus’ view.

“They see us to nothing but discovery!” the Gaul retorted, directing his words to Spartacus as if Agron were not present.

Pride stinging from the slight, Agron huffed.  “Let the Romans come!  I tire of hiding like frightened rabbits!”

“We are not ready for a direct assault,” Spartacus reminded him.

The Gaul added, “Something even a child could see.”

Agron was done pretending to ignore insult from the shit-eating fuck.  “This child helped save you from the arena and fills our numbers with warriors!”

“But has found himself nothing but a pack of wild dogs,” the Gaul sneered.

A burble of laughter escaped Agron.  Wild dogs.  So fucking be it.  Agron would welcome sharp teeth digging into Gallic ass and snapping jaws turned against Roman shit.  Fucking gladly.

He bragged, “Ones that will never follow a fucking Gaul!”

That was the true nature of the selfish fuck’s displeasure, was it not?  Agron looked from the Thracian and back to the fucking Gaul as they stood opposed to him.  As they always fucking had despite Agron having offered aid to Spartacus long before the stubborn fuck of a Gaul had been swayed to join cause.  And then only for the sake of reclaiming his woman.  Fuck the gods.  This was ever the way of it: the fucking champions of the arena standing shoulder to shoulder with Agron making honest effort in vain.

Well.  They could fuck each other.  Agron would suffer their fucking judgment no longer.  He and his brothers would feast and then see what coming battles with the Romans would bring.  Agron’s people would prove themselves needful, an asset better than any number of Gauls.

In the meantime, Agron schooled his expression.  To Spartacus, he said, “Apologies for leaving without you.”

He did not wait to be dismissed.  If his company was not wanted here, he would seek welcome elsewhere.

Jogging through the forest, Agron caught up to the group, not with intention of hearing words broken in long-unheard native tongue, but to ensure that none strayed from path again… or harried any of the former house slaves upon arrival.  Agron need not have bothered; all they required of him was to request the butchering basin for catching blood and entrails.  He passed it to Nemetes, looking up in time to glimpse Nasir, with clay pitcher of lamp oil held to chest, in the act of turning away.

Agron did not shift gaze from his query as, with palm put to shoulder, he urged Nemetes to take the basin and depart.

“Nasir!” he called, following the Syrian man into the temple stores.  The sleeping mats had been replaced in a stack.  Agron had the sudden suspicion that Nasir had been the one to retrieve them from the yard.

“Nasir.”

The lamp oil was placed upon shelf and Nasir moved to leave.

_****“Nasir.”** ** _

“I stand tasked with much this day,” Agron was dispassionately informed.  “You block path.”

Nasir shifted as if to dodge around him.

Frowning, Agron reached for Nasir’s arm.

The attack was sudden; the flat side of a bare blade pressed threateningly against Agron’s inner thigh and a firm shove from shoulder -- the motion driven with strength of leg and knee -- had Agron bumping against the edge of the doorway, skull knocking lightly against the stone.

Agron gawped.  “Nasir…!”

The blade withdrew and Agron realized he’d loosened his hold on the Syrian man’s arm.  Before he could recapture it, Nasir turned away and nearly smacked into Lugo.

Taking in the German man’s broad grin, Agron felt the sudden urge to erase it with his fists.

“Agron and little man!” Lugo greeted in common tongue.  “Lugo seek knife.  For meat.”

Nasir located one upon the shelf and passed it to him.

“Ah!  Good knife,” he approved, earning a faint nod from Nasir, who appeared frustrated at having his departure further impeded.  Lugo looked from Nasir to Agron and promptly let out a booming laugh, tapping the sheathed knife against Agron’s shoulder.

 ** **“ You are an idiot, Agron,”**** Lugo jovially informed him in German.   ** **“ Your little man stands displeased!  He missed your cock during the night.”****

 ** **“ Close fucking mouth,”**** Agron growled, irked and befuddled in equal measures.

Lugo was not deterred.   ** **“ How do you not see this?  You require no small space upon a bed; your little man noticed your absence from it!  He thinks you favored fucking in German!”****

Agron startled, blinking at the blunt revelation.  Surely, Nasir would not believe--

“Little man,” Lugo lurchingly began, addressing Nasir in stilted Roman tongue.  “Agron had no fuck.  His cock lonely all night.  Agron keep watch.  Protect little man.”

Nasir tensed.

Lugo laughed yet again.   ** **“ Kiss him!”**** he ordered Agron in German, punching a fist against his shoulder.   ** **“ Let him have your cock and when he joins the feast tonight he will smile bright again!”****

Agron glared at the man’s retreating back.  “Fuck the gods.”

“What did he tell of?” Nasir asked tightly.

Studying the Syrian man’s expression, Agron began to wonder if Lugo had not seen to the heart of the matter after all.  “You cannot think I wished to be absent your side during the night.”

Dark eyes flashed.  “And _****now****_  you would tell what I cannot think!”

Nasir’s hot fury and hissed accusation set Agron’s blood stirring.  “I know not what you think at all!”

“I think,” Nasir began, pausing to draw a calming breath, “it best that you do not.”

“You would keep me in ignorance?”

Temper flaring yet again, Nasir nearly shouted, “I but return favor in kind!”

“Break fucking words!”

“And provide opportunity for excuse?”

“I have need of none!”

Nasir shook his head in bemusement, lips twisted into a shallow curve of sarcasm.  “Of course.”  Again, he took a step toward the doorway.

Agron lunged to block path, crowding him back into the store room.  “I have no need of excuse,” he repeated, tone low and thoughts dangerous, “for I conceal nothing from you.”

“Do you not?”  The challenge vibrated between them.

His gaze fell to Nasir’s bared teeth and all sense was nearly overwhelmed by thoughts of bites upon stinging flesh and bodies pressed together, Nasir’s fingers pulling at Agron’s hair and Nasir’s nails scraping over bared skin--

Agron’s fists clenched.  “By the fucking gods, if not for your wound, I would have you against this wall.”

“You assume I would yield!”

Agron’s pulse spiked with enough heat to blister skin.  “I pray you would not.”

Their gazes held in a glare.  Agron’s chest was heaving with the effort required to keep hands lowered.  But then Nasir tilted his chin up in further defiance and Agron was desperate to taste that fire upon his own tongue.  He did not even pause to deny the urge.  He touched the tips of his fingers to the underside of Nasir’s chin and then he was nipping at the man’s mouth, drawing lower lip between teeth on a soft groan.  Nasir’s lips parted and Agron pressed advantage with tongue only to receive a quick bite thereon.

“Fuck,” Agron gasped, pulling in a centering breath.  He placed gentle hands upon Nasir’s neck, madness waning against the heat of the man’s skin where it seared his palms.  Between the desire steaming him from within and the lack of rest found during the night, Agron could withstand no more.

“Break words, Nasir.”  It was almost a plea, Agron’s voice breathless and worn thin.

Speaking through gritted teeth, the Syrian man relented: “Account for sleeping mat.”

“What?”

“I took fucking count, Agron.  All were as they had lain the night before with exception of yours.  You returned it to stores.  You did not require it as you led me to believe.”

Agron stared, mouth agape.  “I replaced it in stores, yes.  After lying upon it all fucking night with no company beyond thoughts of you.”

Nasir cocked his head in disbelief.  “It was not yet light when I heard the gate and came into the yard.”

“I rose before dawn.”

“And left absent breaking words.”

“Fuck, I--”  He made effort to swallow, but it failed and his fury was renewed at his own fucking fumbling.  “Sedullus would not be swayed from hunting.  I had no choice but to accompany.  I gave my word to Spartacus that my kin would be asset.  I had to take rest with them--I had to depart with them--I had to…”  Agron sighed out a breath and lowered his brow to Nasir’s.  If the words were so determined to escape him, Agron would not give chase.  “I had to.”  And he had despised every moment of not holding his heart in his arms.

After a long moment, Nasir repeated in a guarded tone, “What of Lugo’s other words?”

Agron supplied them: “I am a fool and I will be held accountable if you do not smile at feast tonight.”

Nasir snorted, lips curving upward.

Agron felt his own mouth answer the gesture.

A hand closed around the back of his neck to hold him in place.  Agron’s lashes lowered; the simple gesture had never been so fucking welcome.

Nasir informed him, “I do not require protection.”

“A fact well demonstrated when I laid unwanted hand upon you.”

“Apologies.  My frustrations--”

“Are fucking formidable.”  Agron leaned away to inform the Syrian man with no small amount of approval, “And your technique is further improved.”

“I have had additional practice of late.”

Agron froze.  “Who?”

“Merely shadows.  Imaginings.  My own thoughts find new methods of torment.”

Smoothing thumbs over cheeks, Agron murmured, “I would have none but you.”

The hand not curled around nape of neck rose to grasp Agron’s bracer.  A long sigh emerged from the man and Agron took careful examination of Nasir’s features.  There were shadows beneath dark eyes and his entire being appeared weighted with exhaustion.  “You did not rest during the night.”

Nasir’s nostrils flared.  His jaw tensed.  “You truly expected otherwise?”

Suspecting he was a word away from being gutted, Agron queried with care, “Would you take rest now?”

“With you?” Nasir inquired tersely.

“Choice is yours.”

“As it should have been night before.”

“I return it to your hands.”

Nasir sighed yet again.  “Then I put them to use.”

This time, when Nasir moved toward the doorway, Agron stepped aside.  Hesitated to follow.  It merely required a quick, expectant glance back over shoulder for Agron to fall into step at Nasir’s side.  They washed hands and collected their midday portions from the freed man charged with distributing rations.  Rather than sit upon the steps and keep watch over his kin -- as Agron ought -- he gladly retreated into the temple with Nasir.

Agron sat upon the pallet when Nasir bid him to and broke his fast.  When they finished, Agron set their bowls aside and allowed Nasir to maneuver him onto bed.  Agron tucked himself against Nasir, breathing contentedly against glossy black hair and warm neck.

“You did not rest well, either,” Nasir observed.

Agron grunted agreement.

“Because of vow made to Spartacus?”

“In part.”

As Nasir could perhaps guess the rest of it -- and it was well known that Agron had only himself to blame for long, lonely, uncomfortable night -- the Syrian man returned to previous inquiry.  “Spartacus has doubts?”

Agron had no desire to discuss it, but replied nonetheless, “When I was sent to scout the port in Neapolis, I learned of three ships soon to dock.  I broke words on only one.”

“You did not present Spartacus with choice in the matter?”

Agron shrugged in response to Nasir’s surprise.  “It would have made no difference.”

“It makes difference.  Your choice becomes your charge.”

A charge which had denied Agron the luxury of sleeping in his own room with the man he would call lover.  Agron pressed his forehead to Nasir’s shoulder and sighed.

Nasir’s fingers shifted, lacing with Agron’s to squeeze hand gently.  “I would lend aid, if I am able.”

“Gratitude,” Agron accepted, tightening his arm briefly around the man’s chest.  “And well received.”

Agron slept until nearly dusk, opening his eyes with a grin, body refreshed.  Greedy for the warmth pressed to his front, Agron’s arm tensed, drawing himself snugly against Nasir’s back.  The temptation to rub his hips forward was as great as it ever was… as was his gratitude that Nasir never pushed him away.  Not upon their bed.  Not even when Agron woke flushed with lazy desire from deep sleep as he was now.

As warm lips and beard stubble sifted through messy, dark locks, Nasir hummed.  “Such affections upon waking.”

“Dreams hold little interest in comparison.”

“You do not dream of battle?” he teased.

Agron agreed, “Hmm.  Of great variety.”

“And how are waking moments made more tempting?”

Agron’s suggestion consisted of a slow glide of lips along strong neck, smiling when Nasir shivered.

“Lugo spoke of other things.”

The sudden words crashed through the slow-building burn in Agron’s blood.  He growled.  “He spoke of what is none of his concern.”

“I would know.”

“Fuck the gods.  He insisted you would be appeased with nothing less than my cock.”

Agron was aware of Nasir becoming very still.  Not tense, but… still.

Agron murmured invitation: “But say the word and I shall knock his senses to the other side of Vesuvius.”

Nasir drew a slow breath.  “I care not that he thinks I desire such from you.”

Contrary to Nasir’s airy tone, Agron’s lungs burned from the stark lack of it.  “What do you desire?”

“At present time, this--”  His grip tightened upon Agron’s arm, further enclosing himself in their embrace.  “This is all I stand capable of desiring.”

Agron did not understand.  “All you stand capable of?”

Nasir squiggled onto his back and gaze dropped to the scar upon Agron’s chest.  “Was it not so when you received your wound?”

Was it not… oh.  Oh!  Agron cleared his throat.  “I took notice, but paid it no heed.”

Nasir’s smile was wry.  “It was one of many duties of my former charge.  The absence leaves me… unsettled.”

“As body mends, ability returns.”

Nasir shifted and Agron’s cock, heavy and full within subligaria, was caressed through the fabric.  “Yet another boast you prove true.”

Agron dropped light kisses upon the upturned face, striving to neither closely consider Nasir’s _****duties****_  to his fucking dominus -- to do so would only invite useless rage -- nor allow his flesh to press too insistently toward Nasir’s warmth.  “I would offer aid, if you are of a mind to accept.”

Soft laughter answered Agron’s offer.  “Such a burden.  It would rival my efforts to assist with your kin, surely.”

The brush of lips upon lips.  “I would have you take a great deal more satisfaction from my hands.”

Fingernails scratched along Agron’s scalp and he drew a sharp, shuddering breath.  Nasir proposed, “Let us see how we fare with your kin before you find yourself with additional charge.”

With a chuckle and one last kiss, Agron pulled away.

The sun was setting and fires roaring in the yard when Agron and Nasir joined the feast.  The wine pouch in Lugo’s grip sloshed half empty as the man bumbled over.

“Little man, big smile!” he bellowed… unfortunately in common tongue… for all to hear.  “Come!  Lugo teach many good German words!  Agron will be pleased!”

Agron placed his hand squarely in the middle of the shit’s face and shoved him back a step.  Laughing, Agron replied, “You barely speak German, you simple fuck.”

Nasir laughed as Lugo threw his arms wide, smacking nearby Nemetes in the face with a flailing hand -- the one not gripping the wine.  In impassioned German, he shouted, ****“ I would only tell your boy of all the ways to praise cock!  You can only benefit!”****

****“ I require no encouragement.”** **

****“ Bah!  All men desire to hear that their cock is bigger than\--”** **

“Lugo!” Sedullus bellowed, drawing laughter from everyone surrounding the cleared space in the center of the yard.  The mischievous twinkle in Sedullus’ eyes spoke of the man’s intent to wait for such an opening to deliver jest.

Lugo spun around, blinking at the interruption until its meaning belatedly sank in.   ** **“ Yes!  It is I!  For I am the true measure!”****

More laughter.  Agron bit his lip, daring to meet Nasir’s expectant look.

 ** **“ Come prove it!”**** Saxa shouted and Lugo took a single sauntering step before turning back to Nasir -- and to Latin -- to promise, “Lugo teach many words of big, nice cock… later!  Now, little man drink wine!”

“Perhaps,” Nasir mused as the drunken man more or less tripped down the steps, “no translation is required.”

Agron wrapped his arm around Nasir’s shoulders and laughed.  Still, he did provide translation.  For sole purpose of seeing Nasir’s cheeks darken with blush.  And, perhaps, also to warn him to repeat Lugo’s German words only upon careful consideration.

A wine pouch was passed to Agron, who handed it to Nasir.  The smile this earned him was unsurpassed.

“Gratitude.”

“Hm,” Agron dismissed, with a shake of his head.  Nasir’s enthusiasm for the drink far exceeded Agron’s.  And even if it hadn’t, Agron would have refrained.  He had been absent his charge long enough already.

They ate while resting upon the steps as Sedullus tossed Lugo about.  Agron put himself between Nasir and flailing limbs and falling body more than once.  After their portions had been eaten, Nasir touched Agron’s back in parting before he went to rinse and return their bowls.  Agron howled and applauded Lugo’s persistence, but Sedullus merely toyed with the man until Lugo was pinned and a mighty fist held at the ready to deliver final blow.

Agron heard Nasir’s cheer from over his shoulder and everyone clamored approval for a good match.

“Your people, they lift spirits,” Nasir told Agron and they shared wide smiles.

But, glancing behind Nasir toward the dour countenance of the fucking Gaul, Agron’s mirth faded.  “Not all are so moved.”

Nasir turned as well, nodding briefly to Naevia and her Gaul.  Agron was not in the mood to dwell upon it.  If Nasir was met with kindness and quality of instruction, Agron would not come between them.

Still, Nasir took notice.  Dark brows lifted in inquiry, but no words passed lips.  Agron shook the lingering memory of insults from mind.

At the sound of heavy footsteps, Agron looked up to find Sedullus’ wide grin fixed upon him.   ** **“ Let us have sport, brother!”****

Agron bit down on a laugh.  This would be a mockery of true contest, but he gave his answer by way of shrugging off belt and sword.  Nasir’s bright laughter encouraged him to, at the very least, force the drunken beast to work for victory.

Dropping his weapons to the steps, Agron straightened only to be grabbed by the arm and thrown into the dust.  He rolled quickly, coming up upon feet and facing off with Sedullus.  He dived for the man’s knees, straining to topple him to the ground, but merely received arms that wrapped around  his waist before tossing him aside.

The match was indeed a complete fucking mockery, but it was in good fun.  Agron lasted longer than Lugo had and contributed more effort at entertainment, much to the joy of the crowd.  When defeat came, as he’d known it would, Agron acknowledged the man’s victory with grace.  He hadn’t been bested this soundly even during training at the ludus.  Truly, Sedullus would prove a great boon to their cause.

Agron moved through the boisterous crowd, accepting commiseration for his sound defeat… until he noted that Sedullus had not chosen a new victim to torment.  Agron had no cause to think that the man might be unkind to Nasir, but the need to confirm the whereabouts of both pulled him up the steps and onto the portico.

Sedullus was easy to spot, towering over the table that had been laid with fragrant greens and boasted freshly drawn water.  As the crowd parted, Agron realized that Sedullus was not alone.  The man’s gaze was focused upon floor and, as Agron took another step, he recognized the look of a man caught between bloodlust and blind rage.

Though he could not hope to win against the man, Agron could draw his ire.  He raced down the short corridor as Sedullus bent low, knife in hand…

…toward Naevia.

_****No!** ** _

Agron leaped forward and locked arms around the man’s neck and shoulders.

 ** **“ Sedullus!  Stop this!”**** Agron shouted, but it was lost in celebration’s raucous laughter and enraged roar of blood.

Agron’s back and head met stone for the second time in a day, this time with far more force than Nasir’s slender frame had managed.  Breath squashed from lungs beneath Sedullus’ bulk, Agron sought to land a kick.  Distract from the grip upon neck.

A large hand grabbed the back of Agron’s head and he was tossed over shoulder to land upon ass.  Again, he rolled to his feet.  The crowd stumbled back as Agron readied himself to strike.  Sedullus would provide opening when--

Grip upon throat -- Agron clutched at the single arm that lifted him off of his feet and tossed him to stone floor.

Breath gone.

Blurs of movement.

Agron rolled once, flopping onto back.

Stunned.

He lifted head to--

A fist sent his skull crashing down, striking stone.  Another strike.  A third.

Agron made effort to gather himself.  Summon counterattack -- a kick, a knee to groin, a hand to throat, any technique Oenomaus had taught him, any blow Duro had managed to land upon him, _**anything--!**_

 _ ** **“Sedullus!”****  _bellowed a voice well-known.  The Gaul’s.

And then the star-bursts began to recede.  The shadow looming over Agron -- the terrible grin and maddened gaze -- gone.  The roar of the crowd.  Pain exploding through his skull, hands and knees twitching with blind purpose.  Agron gasped.  Flailed.

_****Gain feet.** ** _

_****Gain feet.** ** _

_****Gain fucking feet!** ** _

He found himself lying upon his side as if woken by Nasir’s change of breathing or restless shifting.  Agron lifted his head to chaos.  Sounds of battle.  Roars of bloodlust.  Fists striking bodies.  And Sedullus--!

That fuck Sedullus was scuttling upon the steps, reaching for Agron’s abandoned belt.

Agron threw himself from the portico and upon the creature’s back.  Again, he wound arms across throat -- there was no wall at his back this time -- and squeezed with enough force to pop the head off of a man’s shoulders.  Had it been any other man, Agron would have bested him.  Killed him or nearly so.

With a roar, Sedullus threw Agron against the steps.  Hard edges gouged into hip, ribs, shoulder, skull and agony erupted in crashing waves.  Dazed, Agron struggled to sit up onto his elbows.  His sword.  He must lay hand upon sword!

A blood-curdling cry was his only warning; Sedullus rose above him, Agron’s own sword in his grasp.

There was nowhere to retreat, to roll, to regain feet.  A single kick -- Agron would manage only a single blow from aching leg before that blade was upon him--!

A woman’s shout above the din.  Agron could not make out the word over his own scream of rage and fucking shit this fucking shit was--!

A form flew between them.  The metallic ring of blades.  Sedullus and Spartacus.

Agron gaped, mind numb and pain forgotten, as swords clashed.  A blow to Sedullus’ lower half -- a minor wound -- and then a strike to the face.

A fatal wound that cleaved the man’s head in two.

Silence.  Silence and the wet pulse of blood from twitching flesh.

The thud of Sedullus’ weight crashing down upon knees and then chest in the dust restarted Agron’s brain.  He shoved at stone steps with hands.  He drew breath.  He was yet among the living.  As was Nasir.  He stood in the yard, winded from fighting but not flinching in pain.

He had likely fared better than Agron.  His lips twitched helplessly as Nasir’s dark eyes focused upon him, but Agron’s relief was short-lived.

“Enough!” Spartacus shouted.  Face twisted in disgust, he gestured to the body with bloodied sword.  “Is this what you are?  Animals demanding slaughter?”

Gaze upon the carcass, Agron pushed himself up.  Fuck, his skull was--

“We give you freedom,” Spartacus reminded all, “and you repay it with blood and dishonor.”

_****Dishonor.** ** _

_****“Crixus--”** ** _

_****“Is an honorable man.”** ** _

Agron choked upon what little breath remained in his chest.

“If you cannot stand among us as trusted brother…”  The challenge rang out as Spartacus now gestured toward those who stood panting and gaping in the yard.  “If you cannot follow my orders…”

Agron looked up and met Spartacus’ gaze.

For a moment, anger was all Agron could see.  But then Spartacus’ features twisted and the man swallowed, pain and disappointment flickering before recasting steady gaze.

_****Pain and disappointment.** ** _

The agony of Agron’s bruised body paled in comparison.

Spartacus seemed to force himself to speak, though to those who did not know him well, the hesitation would be lost, “Take leave now or join Sedullus in death.”

No.  Agron would not.  He would not take leave.  Nor would he liken himself in any way to that dead, mad fuck.  By the gods, Agron had made fucking vow to Spartacus!  They had slain Romans together.  The house of Batiatus had fucking drowned in a river of blood made so by Agron’s hand, by Spartacus’, by Duro’s.

Duro.  Of all who held claim to disappointment, it was his brother who stood foremost.  Duro, who had been struck down in a moment of celebration.  They had clasped hands and laughed over the Roman bodies and blood at their feet.  They had stopped fighting before fight was done and they had been caught unaware.

Not unlike Agron had been caught unaware by Sedullus.

When had Agron stopped fighting?  Upon encountering Spartacus in the forest that morning?  Upon hearing the wagon’s approach?  Upon departing to hunt absent leader and contrary to orders?  Upon laying fucking self down upon fucking ground far from Nasir?  Or even before?  When he had broken words of only the ship from Germania?  When he had learned of Naevia’s banishment to the mines and had lied about it?

It did not matter.  What mattered was Agron had chosen the easier path.  He had stopped fighting.  That was why Agron had never stood a champion of the arena.

That was why Spartacus and Crixus did.

That was why they both had stood against him as if he were a foolish boy: because Agron did not _****see.****_   He did not see that they did not set foot to purpose to merely brawl with Roman fucks.  They set foot to purpose to destroy all fucking enemies.  Glaber’s death was only the beginning.

And upon _****that****_  task, Agron would also set his intent.  From this moment forth.  Unwavering.

Agron regained his feet.

“I follow Spartacus!” he shouted, still short of breath but now strong of mind.  Agron shouted his allegiance as he had never done before.  At the ludus, they had exchanged nods and cast looks of conspiracy.  The only shout had come when Agron had charged the guards.  He had roared for blood and pain and vengeance.

This moment held none of that.  It was resolution.  It was purpose.  True purpose.

Agron bellowed, “And I call no man my kin who does not stand so!”

He faced the people who had come from his homelands.  He faced them and he bid them make choice.  Agron had made his.

He looked to Spartacus -- not for approval, but because Agron was giving his word.  It did not matter if it was believed now.  It would be in time, through intent and deed.  The same was required of all men.  Agron now understood that he was no different.

The fire crackled, snapped, and spat.

And then Lugo knelt and collected a dropped shield in left hand and abandoned sword in right.  “The man who kill Sedullus,” the stocky man loudly announced, staring hard at Spartacus, “is great warrior… and Lugo follow!”

With those words, he struck flat of sword against shield once, twice, and again and again and again and again and--

Agron’s fist came down upon his own chest.  Arm and heart pumping blood and vowing loyalty.  The oath of a warrior.  The spirit of a fighter.  Rome would call them slaves, but no chains or collar could hold the will of a man who had set foot upon path of destiny.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty sure it’s not Lugo that Sedullus wrestles before he goads Agron for a match, but I don’t think it’s Harudes, either, ((and it’s definitely not Nemetes) so I chose Lugo because I know his name. But I guess it may have been Totus?


	12. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (Sedullus' corpse), RAUNCHY SEX (Saxa and Nemetes), NUDITY (Nagron!!!)

 

It was a waste of cloth -- shrouding Sedullus -- but it had to be done.  Agron insisted on being the one to hold the dead man’s arms in place.  Lugo pressed the remains of the face upon head.  Nemetes and Spartacus passed the cloth between them, over and under, until it was done.

“I will see to the grave,” Agron announced.

Nemetes and Lugo shared a look.

Spartacus clasped Agron’s shoulder.  A bruise was forming there.  He could feel it.  All the way to the bone.  “The hands that dealt death will see to it.”

“Fucking hands are mine.”  Agron met Spartacus’ gaze, his mouth set in a frown that had been absent in recent weeks -- bitter, determined, formidable.

“I did not see sword in your grasp.”

“It was no sword that marked this man for death, but my actions.  And lack of.”

Nemetes shifted and Lugo cleared his throat, both men clearly ill at ease with Agron’s words.  Of all the recently liberated warriors, these two stood among a small group possessed of understanding of common tongue.  Agron did not doubt that the others would ask to hear the words that had passed between them here.  Nor did Agron expect either Lugo or Nemetes to lie.  It was the bearing of witness to the words themselves that caused upset.  Burden of knowledge.  Whether to pass it on to others or to withhold words.  Agron was well aware of fucking dilemma.

Agron admitted, “I could not sway Sedullus to follow orders.”

“No man stop Sedullus,” Lugo insisted grimly.  “Sedullus know this.”

Nemetes nodded.

Spartacus gazed down upon the shrouded form.  The corpse had been too large and heavy to move it into the temple.  One of the shelters along the wall had been claimed for the task.  If it were not approaching midnight, Agron would have dug the grave himself, aches and wounds upon flesh or not, simply to have the creature far from sight.  But that was not their way.

Agron moved slowly to his feet, skull still throbbing.  Bones aching.  Flesh slowly becoming all the colors of pain and battle.  “Spartacus, let us leave.  So that they may present gifts to a fallen brother.”

Moving as an old man, Agron emerged into the yard.  Though there was yet laughter and loud voices, it was changed from earlier.  Some recalled humorous times shared with Sedullus.  Some recalled past grievances.  As Agron had known Sedullus for a mere two days, he would make his own offering once the others were done.

There was no reason for Spartacus to remain, but he paused at the base of the steps beside Agron.

“Sedullus would have killed many Romans.”  Agron heard the words as if delivered on wind from distant tongue rather than from his own lips.

“Sedullus may have stood unmatched in battle, but…” Spartacus wondered, “how many allies would have fallen as well as Romans?”

Agron shook his head, not in disagreement but in resignation.  “I did not keep my word.  To you or them.”

Spartacus sighed.  “We miscalculated, brother.  These people have never felt the weight of Roman yoke pressing breath from body day by day.  They may have borne chains and collar, yet they suffered wounded pride, not defeat of spirit.”

Agron’s sidelong glance was met with a look of equal regret.  “I will make better effort, so mistakes are not repeated.”

“Show of force was required.  It would have been the same had we liberated the ship from Gallia.”

With a huff of misplaced humor, Agron remarked, “I note you dismiss the ship from Damascus.”

“Are there any among us who could stand as translator?”

Such simple fucking logic.  Agron bit the inside of his cheek.  “Either we accept a loss from each ship we take, or we cease all effort at liberation.”

“The flaw is not in endeavor itself, but in execution.”

“A fitting choice of word.”

Judging by the glare this earned him, Spartacus did not find the remark amusing.

“Perhaps once our new brothers are content among ranks, they might lend aid.  We will be prepared to test every new recruit thoroughly next time.”  Spartacus offered a wry smile.  “A sound thrashing and evaluation by Oenomaus may prove sufficiently humbling.”

“Perhaps Lydon and I had best secure more cloth when next seeking supplies.”  Agron shot a cynical look at the Thracian.  “In case of need.”

Spartacus made no reply.

Agron added, “We cannot expect those who have not had heart crushed beneath Roman heel -- and even some who have experienced such loss -- to surrender pride for sake of cause.”

At this, Spartacus gave Agron a penetrating look.

Agron returned it.  “My own actions prove fucking words true.”

“You judge yourself too harshly.”  Spartacus lifted a hand as if to grasp Agron’s shoulder, but then he seemed to think better of the action.  “We must check your wounds.”

“Such is my charge,” Nasir insisted, emerging from temple shadow.

Spartacus smiled.  “Then I leave you to it.”  With a quirk of his lips, Spartacus spoke final words to Agron, “I expect you have the good sense not to press fortune?”

“I am too fucking tired.”

Chuckling, Spartacus moved up the steps.  Agron turned toward Nasir, his lips curving into a smile.  “You fought well.”

Nasir grunted.  “Gaze so easily passed through hulking figure of Sedullus?”

Drawing close enough to flick Nasir’s ear, Agron redirected his touch at the last moment.  He instead placed a hand upon the Syrian man’s neck.  “You do not favor any wounds, neither old nor new.  That is proof enough.”  Tilting his brow against Nasir’s, Agron murmured, “I know your mind; though you count fucking mats and run sword through Roman shits from behind, you would not hesitate to join battle.”

Nasir tilted chin up, lips pursed, and placed a chaste kiss upon Agron’s sore mouth.

“I deliver accolades with fucking silver tongue for so small a reward?” Agron lightly complained.

“I would dare more, but have no desire to hear louder complaints.  Your face begins to bruise.”

“Then press lips elsewhere.”

“Is there such a place upon body that is _****not****_  covered in dust?”

Fuck.  Agron sighed.

With a soft chuckle, Nasir hooked an arm through Agron’s.  “Come.  I believe there is a solution.”

Indeed there was.  Turning the corner of the temple, Agron blinked at the arrangement laid beside the water source.  “Disrobe,” Nasir directed, “and sit.  I would wash you before we take rest.”

“Take rest upon hard ground,” Agron reminded him.  “Twice as much dirt sticks to wet skin.”

“I know you would stay with your kin.  I’ve made preparations.”

Agron shrugged in defeat.  “As you wish.”

Nasir’s victorious smile soothed Agron’s irritation like cool water over battered skin.  Eager for the latter, Agron removed belts, boots, cup and cloth before taking seat upon indicated stool.  He leaned elbows upon knees and exhaled with bliss at the feel of Nasir’s palm passing over his shoulders, from right to left across back, just before a trickle from pitcher splashed against the hand which gently guided the water over Agron’s skin.

His scalp, ears, neck, shoulders, back, arms, and hips were washed kindly and thoroughly.  The touch almost hypnotic.  When Nasir’s bare feet and legs entered his line of sight, Agron startled, looking up to a vision of Nasir in naught but a simple subligaria and bandages.

“Close eyes,” Nasir bid him, tilting Agron’s chin up with a soft touch that mirrored Agron’s own habit of placing hand upon Nasir’s jaw.

Agron allowed eyes to close.

Careful fingers channeled each rivulet of water, cleansing brow, nose, lips, chin.  There was true skill in this: bathing.  Agron and Duro had laughed fit to shit themselves when they’d learned how Romans were so useless they required the hands of others to wash their bodies.

As water trailed across and down his throat, broad sweeps of Nasir’s palm kept errant droplets from falling too far and shocking heated skin.  Agron, eyes still closed, mumbled, “Gratitude.”

“None required.”

“Accept, Nasir,” Agron insisted gently.  “If I’m to suffer it, so shall you.”

“We truly have differing opinions of suffering.”

Agron’s chest bounced with laughter.  Nasir’s touch remained steady.  “Still, I’ll not ask for this again.”

“No more brawls with drink-maddened giants?”  Nasir chuckled.  “I fear the welts on back of skull must be tended by Camilla.”

The mere thought of it ensured Agron’s cock remained flaccid.  “You pain me in more ways than can be counted.”

“Upon fingers _****and****_  toes?”

Agron cracked open an eye and, frowning, delivered a baleful glare.  The fucking shit was smiling.  “Ills to number a score are not fucking enough?”

Nasir hummed, gaze following the progress of hand as it moved over Agron’s belly.  “Not fucking enough.  I would hear more of this.”  Agron found himself gaping at Nasir’s eyes, which sparkled with mirth.  “As it is now of pressing concern.”

Nasir took a step back and Agron’s gaze fell to the thin cloth spanning Nasir’s slender hips.  He sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of taut fabric and the impression of hardened cock.  Agron licked dry lips, turned eyes toward Nasir’s face, drew breath to speak--

“Stand,” Nasir ordered.

Given the sudden rush of blood departing head for cock, Agron was not entirely sure that he ought to.  “Have you not washed enough skin for kisses?”

Nasir gave Agron an appraising look.  “There is much,” he agreed, “yet I would have… more.”

Fuck the gods.

Taking a steadying breath, Agron stood.  With gritted teeth, he glared up at the night sky, glad for this shadowed space absent others.  He endured the passage of warm touch and cool water over thigh, knee, calf, shin, ankle--

“Take my shoulder,” Nasir instructed.  “Lift foot.”

Firm touch upon toes, arch, and heel had Agron’s head tilting back in visceral pleasure.  And Nasir had only just finished his right side.  The left was even more exquisitely felt as now Agron anticipated every motion of hand.

His body was tingling, caught between bruises from battle, more pleasant aches, and the sharp sting of arousal when Nasir released his left foot and stood to refill the pitcher.  Agron reached for it before Nasir could bathe the only remaining portions of unattended skin.  “I would not ask,” he rasped, only just now noticing how he struggled for breath.

“I would insist,” Nasir replied.  “And, one day, have you return favor.”

Agron’s jaw clenched, a sound eking from throat despite effort to hold back.  “No.  Halt.”

Nasir paused.

“I--not here.  Not--”  Not as a Roman would take pleasure from enslaved hands.  The thought made Agron’s belly churn, desire evaporating from blood.  Agron lifted a hand to Nasir’s face, thumb tracing the curve of lower lip.  Agron struggled for words to explain--

“Apologies,” Nasir breathed.  “I do not intend torment.”

Agron growled in frustration.  Yes, it was torment, of a sort, but…  “I would gladly return favor.  Of bathing.  But…”  Again, the fucking words mocked him beyond range of tongue!  “For other pleasures, I would have you in our bed.  Where my hands are no more idle than yours.”

Nasir startled.  Eyes narrowing, he accused in tone absent passion, “You would call this the Roman way.”

“Fuck,” Agron swore, mind muddled and words twisting upon tongue.  He slid fingers over Nasir’s hair -- only slightly askew from the fight -- and dived low to press tiny kisses to jaw from chin to ear.  “I would have you take from my hands.  What you give now is… it fucking surpasses words, but you _****give,****_  Nasir.  I desire that you _****take.”****_

The Syrian man released a long breath, shuddering and leaning into Agron’s hands.  “You underestimate the challenge issued.”

Agron laughed softly at the heat in those dark eyes.  “I fucking hope so.”

Nasir shifted, turning mouth to Agron’s.  Lips brushed, settled, nibbled, nipped.  The water pitcher pressed against Agron’s chest and, if not for that barrier between them, he would not have been capable of holding to resolution.

Leaning back, Nasir whispered, “Finish washing.  I provide cloth and tunic.”

With a final touch of lips and caress of hand upon neck, Nasir slipped from Agron’s grasp.  As Nasir pulled on his own clothing, Agron brusquely completed washing.  Without Nasir’s smile and skin and touch to distract him, scraped and pummeled flesh resumed complaints.  But Agron had suffered worse.

He exchanged empty pitcher for cloth, addressing what skin he could easily reach and handing the cloth back to Nasir so that his shoulders and back could be dried.  He donned the Roman shit’s tunic with a wince -- he’d hoped to be done with the garment -- but it provided opportunity to rinse his subligaria as Nasir returned the pitcher and stool to the temple.

When Agron finished, he found Nasir seated upon the portico, near the top of the steps, resting upon a pallet.  Their pallet.  From their room.  Agron grinned.  Of course Nasir would find balance between necessity of resting near Agron’s kin and comfort gained from each other.

When Nasir had first been released from Camilla’s watchful eye, he’d found rest only while curled up upon his side, taking up the entire width of the pallet for himself.  Now, however…

“You do not require aid of bracing body?” Agron quietly inquired, dropping his belts and boots to the step below and draping his subligaria over a nearby stool of wood frame and aged leather to dry.

“More than one concern of body is on the mend,” Nasir replied with perfect innocence.  “Unless you would require a sleeping mat of your own.”

Lowering himself to the pallet beside Nasir, Agron stretched his legs out on the steps.  “All I require is here.”  He nudged Nasir’s elbow with his.

Nasir’s smile was warm and easily the most beautiful sight Agron had ever laid eyes upon.

Turning back to the scene in the yard, Nasir jutted his chin in the direction of a man entering the shelter that contained Sedullus’ body.  “What do they do?”

“Parting gifts.  They break final words or--”

The sound of a man singing, slightly muffled, drifted through the fabric walls and into the night.

“What does he sing of?”

“Battles and glory.  A common offering to a fallen brother who is neither blood kin nor close friend.”

Nasir listened, repeating the occasional word for Agron to translate.  When the song ended, the man emerged and Agron chuckled as Saxa dragged Nemetes within, her hand upon the poor fuck’s cock.

“They would… in the presence of a corpse?”

Agron shrugged.  “Sedullus also enjoyed wine, but supplies are low.  Offering that would be wasted on the dead.”

Nasir snickered.  Then blinked at the sounds of very noisy, vicious fucking coming from inside the shelter.  Agron glanced over when he felt Nasir’s shoulder press against the side of his chest.  Agron lifted arm to make room for him.  The Syrian man confided, “Your people are very… boisterous.”

With crooked smile and wry shake of head, Agron admitted, “We drink; we fuck; we fight.”

“Hmm.”

That tone.  Agron’s chin twitched to the side.  He squinted at Nasir.  “You believe me tame by comparison.”

“The effort you would expend for sake of drink is clearly set aside for spilling blood.  About the other, I cannot offer comment.  Yet.”

_****Yet.** ** _

It would have been impossible for Nasir to _****not****_  feel the shudder that raced through Agron at the word.  The Syrian man returned to earlier query: “What else do your people do well?”

“Use crass words.”

Nasir barked with laughter.  “Is it so?  I took no notice.”

Agron reached up to gently flick the lobe of Nasir’s ear.  “We make jests.”

“Again, I stand surprised.  It’s fortunate you are not an argumentative or stubborn people as well.”

The little shit.  Agron chuckled.

Nasir smirked.

As mirth faded, Agron sobered and offered one more quality: “We are loyal.”  Sensing Agron’s attention focused upon him, Nasir looked away from the yard.  “Unto the afterlife and thereafter.”

Nasir’s gaze softened, becoming as a caress.  But then his lips quirked with irony: “The same cannot be said for Syrians?”

“Should I ever cross paths with that fuck, Ashur, I would see him to the afterlife for the daily insult his presence inflicts upon all.”

“As the villain’s countryman, that charge would fall to me.”

Agron cocked his head.  “Are you a Syrian, then?”

Nasir huffed.  Clearly remembering the words they had first broken over a month before, he retorted, “I’m no fucking Roman.”

Breath hitching with silent mirth, Agron pressed a kiss to Nasir’s crown.

When Saxa -- enthusiastic for more drink -- emerged from the shelter followed by a visibly flagging Nemetes, no one immediately entered.  Agron stood.

“You would have final words with Sedullus?” Nasir checked.

Agron’s brow tilted.  He grinned with irreverent humor.  “Well, I’m not going to fuck my fist for him.”

“I’m sure you can find a more appreciative audience.”

Fucking fuck the fucking gods.  The muscles in Agron’s neck and shoulders corded as he sucked in a breath.  Schooling his features into mock innocence, he replied, “Shall I make inquiries?”

“A man who is not foolish would need only one.”

To that declaration, Agron could only answer with a lingering press of lips upon Nasir’s sly smile.

Agron descended the steps, pausing to break words with those who hailed him before he approached the shelter.  Ducking beneath the flap, he caught the scent of wine -- some generous friend had poured a bit of drink into the dirt for an offering -- and sex, of course.

 ** **“ Sedullus,”**** Agron told the shrouded corpse.   ** **“ Gratitude for your aid aboard the slaver ship.  You warned of the guard who shared our tongue and killed a Roman fuck with admirable skill and strength.  May you fight in many glorious battles in the afterlife.”****

He paused.  Considered memory.  Found no additional remarks to offer of Sedullus’ admirable qualities.

Had Agron known the man longer, perhaps he would have broken more words.  Or perhaps not.

With a bitter huff of laughter, Agron added, ****“ But stay away from the fucking wine, you beast.”****

Agron tapped the dead man’s shoulder in farewell and went back to the yard… only to groan at the sight of Lugo perched on the steps near Nasir’s feet, gesturing grandly.  As Nasir attended to the shit’s every word no less.

“Fuck the gods.”  Agron set to interrupt the lesson, but found himself further delayed by men and women.  The men pressed wine skins to Agron’s arm in invitation to drink.  To refuse would stand as insult, so he made appearance of accepting, miming a swallow before passing the pouch back and sharing a few words.  The women, warmed and made affectionate with drink, pressed _****themselves****_  against Agron’s arm and these offerings he refused firmly regardless of offense.

Finally emerging from the gauntlet of drunken celebrants, Agron hauled himself up the temple steps.

“Ah!  Here is Agron.  Speak words Lugo teach!”  With a pat on Nasir’s shoulder, Lugo marched down the steps and over to the campfire, looking very fucking pleased with himself.

Nasir’s amusement banished Agron’s simmering irritation.  Still, he managed a surly growl: “Break no fucking words learned from Lugo, I beg of you.”

A finger pressed against Agron’s lips.  “Begging is not required.  Set mind at ease.”  The hand shifted, skimming over cheek and neck to shoulder.  “And body as well.  It grows late.”

Agron laid down upon his less-battered left side.  Due to lingering discomfort of wound, Nasir mirrored him upon right, tucking head beneath Agron’s chin.  With an arm over Nasir’s shoulder to cradle him close, Agron looked out over the yard once more and then closed his eyes.

He was roused at dawn by the sound of shuffling feet.  His people were preparing to deliver the body to grave.  Agron sat up slowly, carefully removing his arm and brushing escaped tendrils of hair back from Nasir’s cheek.  A soft footstep at his side drew Agron’s gaze to Spartacus who held both sword and tool for digging.

“I would lend aid,” Agron said quietly.  Spartacus nodded and descended the steps.  Agron paused long enough to nudge Nasir.  When his lashes fluttered with awareness, Agron said, “I go with Spartacus to prepare grave.  Rest a while longer.”

“No.  I would accompany.”  Before Agron could utter argument, Nasir insisted, “These are your people, and I stand with you.”

Agron could only nod once.

They replaced the pallet, washed face and rinsed mouth, then passed a pair of Roman cloaks -- the ones Agron and Spartacus had acquired from the arena guards -- to Nemetes and Lugo.  The strength of the weave would aid in conveying the body beyond temple walls.  Nasir fetched a pair of large wooden bowls from the pile of digging tools in temple cellar for the use of scooping away earth.

Spartacus had finished cutting away a patch of grass by the time Agron and Nasir joined him.  Sheathing sword, the Thracian began to dig.  Agron and Nasir gathered the loose dirt and lifted it away until range of arm and protest of body no longer permitted.

Agron was not surprised that Spartacus lingered for the body to be laid to rest.  Yet, Agron had not expected Donar and Oenomaus to follow in the wake of the Germans to see Sedullus to grass.

The funeral was brief, according to custom, and all returned to the temple well before noon.  There was, in fact, time before the midday meal for Oenomaus to evaluate Agron’s kinsmen.  The sounds of wooden sticks striking blows echoed off of stone walls as Nasir, Agron, and Donar looked over the dwindling supplies within the stores.

It went without saying that they would have to take another caravan.

“I will inquire to Camilla of infirmary’s stores,” Nasir offered and Agron sent him off with a touch to shoulder.

Looking up in time to catch Donar’s gaze redirecting from the gesture, Agron arched a challenging brow.

Donar offered a wry grin.  “I no longer question your lack of interest in whores.”  With a nod toward Nasir’s departing form, he added, “A worthy cause to fight for.”

“Is the fucking fall of Rome not enough?”

“Eh, a lofty aim.  I set my sights to familiar blood and battle.   _ ** **This****_  dog,” Donar concluded, indicating himself, “is too old to change his ways.”

“Yes.  I forget you are so long of years.”

“Close mouth, pup.”

Agron grinned.  “Let us see what our kin offer by way of skill.  We’ll set foot to path after Spartacus and Mira return from hunting.”

They reached the edge of the portico to take in one of the first training matches.

Saxa screamed a shining example of encouragement: ****“ You fight like a fucking child!”****

Nemetes hollered, ****“ I pray you fuck better than you fight, Harudes!”****

Donar and Agron exchanged amused looks.  More and more, the temple was becoming ludus.

The man called Harudes was dumped upon bumbling ass in the dust to the jeers and cheers of onlookers.  Many perched atop the shelters.  The fabric coverings had been rolled up and tied fast, exposing the earth within to sunlight.

Oenomaus scolded the fallen man, “You betray intent by bellowing like a crazed goat.”

Harudes gained feet and, spitting out a measure of blood, demanded of his opponent, ****“ What does he say?”****

****“ That you fuck yourself in your own ass!”** **

Laughter, well-meaning rather than cruel, rang out.  Harudes grinned, accepting a slap upon shoulder in commiseration of defeat and, shaking his head, withdrew for the next pair to come forward.

“Nemetes, Saxa, take position,” Oenomaus commanded.

Grabbing the mock weapons from the previous combatants, they approached.  Saxa bumped shoulders with Harudes when the dim fuck crowded her path.  Agron shook his head; his people were fucking hard of head.

“Are we to use wooden stick in battle as well?” Nemetes challenged.

“Close mouth!” Agron ordered.  “Heed Oenomaus.”

Nemetes squinted in surprise.  Agron was well aware that he had not spoken so harshly to any of his people before, but he would not repeat earlier mistakes.  Disrespect toward those who had already proven themselves would not be tolerated just as respect must be earned by newcomers.  A fucking ludus indeed.

Donar raised his brows, equally as startled as Nemetes by Agron’s sudden change of demeanor.  Nemetes, however, did not have the sense to keep fucking mouth shut.

“I need no instruction,” the stubborn shit insisted.  “I fucking know how to fight!”

“I instruct you not how to fight, but how to win,” Oenomaus calmly replied, his tone a coiled whip moments away from cracking upon flesh.  “So you do not find yourself _****again****_  enslaved by the Romans.”

The whip found target, undefended and soft.  The sting of its bite felt by all who understood common tongue.

Agron smirked.

Nemetes retreated half a step, accepting truth as it had been spoken.

“First position,” Oenomaus quietly repeated.

This time, no argument was given.

“Attack!”

Saxa charged, quickly forcing Nemetes to defensive posture.  Agron listened as Donar spoke beneath the clamor of clashing makeshift weapons: “Nemetes does hold argument.  Towards lack of proper weapons at least.”

Which perhaps the coming supply raid would provide, if not in whole then in part.  An issue hopefully soon to be addressed in its entirety when--

A disruption near the gate -- excited whispers and sudden quieting of training noise -- called Agron’s attention toward Spartacus’ return… and the blindfolded Roman bitch, belly swollen with child, that the Thracian towed in his wake.

For a moment, he could not understand how this had come to be… until he took in the sight of Mira and Gannicus following closely at rear.

That fucking Celt.  Again.

Agron’s lip curled into a sneer.  “Fuck the gods.”

The Gaul took it upon himself to state the fucking obvious, hurrying forward to accuse Spartacus, “You have taken Glaber’s wife?”

“No.  She has been delivered into my hands.”

As a fucking gift from fucking god of the fucking arena.

Well.  It would seem that Agron would not be venturing out for supplies this day after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure what the funeral rites would be for the Germanic tribes. Probably a pyre. But at this point it’s probably best not to send the Romans any smoke signals.
> 
> EDIT: Yes, it appears that ancient Germanic tribes would cremate the dead along with some personal possessions of the deceased -- a sword or brooch for instance -- and then scoop up the ashes, place them in a clay urn or vessel, and then bury the vessel. But I stand by the burial of Sedullus because, yeah, an enemy would probably see a huge bonfire and the rebels are in no way ready to face a Roman army... yet. 
> 
> Though Agron doesn’t appear to be bruised from the bashing he took from Sedullus, I kinda think he would be. Also, headache. Because how many times does he get punched in the face against the stone floor before Crixus clues in and dives onto Sedullus to exact a pound of flesh? I mean, seriously. Agron’s got a thick skull and he can slugfest with the best of them, but. But.
> 
> If you've also read (or are reading) "And Prove More Fierce," then the issue of "give" versus "take" should seem familiar. (^_~)
> 
> Soldmysoulforasmile (formerly FuckinGauls) and I have discussed (in comments) how Agron defines himself through his role/responsibilities (such as looking after Duro and having his brother's back) or Agron's participation in The Group, so he takes it really hard that he let things with Sedullus get so out of hand. Good thing Lugo throws his two cents in. Still, Agron's not going to shirk his responsibilities again! And since he knows that Germans respect a show a strength rather than politics, he doesn't hesitate to be a hard ass (in that moment where Agron basically says, "Shut your face and listen to Oenomaus") and EVERYONE -- even Donar -- looks shocked because Agron was such an easy-going guy before this!


	13. Blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes (because yeah this is totally Episode 2x08, y'know?)
> 
> German words are in BOLD and UNDERLINED

Of all the things Agron would have expected to find himself discussing with Saxa, the subject of Gannicus had never occurred.  But as they retrieved their portions for midday meal, she glanced toward the solitary, seated Celt and asked, ****“ Is it true he stood champion in the arena?”****

Agron chuckled.  Say but the word “champion” and women all but bared themselves in offering.  And they sometimes did that as well.  Still, Agron had not thought Saxa the sort.  No, she would not be an offering but a goddess demanding tribute.

Agron made effort to gather a stern look, speaking needful reminder as an elder brother might: ****“ I thought you were with Nemetes.”****

Her grin was wide and hungry… and not for the food now held in hands.   ** **“ For the moment.”****

As she walked away, Agron could only pity the men she set her sights upon.  And he pitied whatever elder brothers she may have had.  The poor shits surely could not have kept her close to hearth.  Saxa was indeed of the same like as the girls Agron had trained alongside within chieftain’s fort and the women he had fought alongside in his homeland.  There would be no taming them.

“Porridge amuses you?” Nasir asked as Agron approached.

Agron held out his bowl.  “It and Donar share a likeness.”

Nasir snickered, using a corner of flat bread to scoop up another mouthful of the tasteless sludge.  He was smiling as he ate and Agron stood amazed.  Nasir always seemed pleased to take meals, no matter how gamey, stale, or lacking in salt, despite the fact that he was certainly accustomed to finer things.  Delicacies, even.

“Does Saxa share opinion of porridge and Donar?”

“I know not.  Her eye is upon Gannicus.”  Agron chuckled.  With rueful shake of head, he leaned against the table beside Nasir, who appeared slightly confused.

“She does not claim Nemetes for her own?”

“Perhaps she’ll have both.”

Nasir coughed, choking on a bite.  “You cannot--”  Another small cough.  “--be speaking in earnest.”

Agron shrugged, unbothered.

Nasir scanned the people filing past the porridge pot, each departing with bowl and bread in hand.  “Is there loyalty in such an arrangement?”

Agron paused, mid-bite.  Just last night, Agron had claimed his kin possessed uncommonly fierce sense of loyalty.  He glanced toward Nasir, who lifted a questioning brow.  Swallowing, Agron addressed the implied challenge, “Saxa is no man’s wife.  She may do as she pleases.”

“And how would you and I stand in your homeland among your people?”

“We stand as free men,” Agron replied firmly, “no matter the land.”

Nasir straightened, drawing breath.

Agron braced himself--

“Agron!  Nasir!”

They turned at Spartacus’ call.  Agron frowned at the troubled look the Thracian cast and noted his hands clean of blood.  Perhaps he had strangled the bitch.

“I would ask something of you both.”

Agron sighed.  “You could not have killed the viper beyond temple walls?”  He lifted his bowl to hastily shovel the remaining porridge into mouth.  Hauling a lifeless body was doubly unpleasant if undertaken with empty belly.

“She yet draws breath.”

Agron sputtered, a dollop of food catching in his throat.

“What do you require?” Nasir asked, ignoring Agron’s tearing eyes and struggle to swallow absent water to aid effort.

“Guards,” Spartacus answered, eyeing Agron’s continuing distress, which was slowly easing.  “I would ask you both to keep watch on our… guest.”

Nasir set his empty bowl down.  Agron cleared his throat one last time before doing the same.  “Who relieves us?”

“I will.  For evening meal.”

“She is in the cellar?” Nasir checked.

Spartacus nodded and Agron snorted with sarcasm: “A fitting place for a creature suited only for hanging.”  It was no hardship to imagine her strung up beside the deer Mira had felled that morning.

“I would keep her alive and unharmed,” Spartacus warned, “until proper use of her is determined.”

“Proper use,”Agron sneered.

“If her life benefits us, would that not be a more fitting act of vengeance?” the Thracian replied with arched brow.

Agron stiffened.  Yes, they could slay Glaber’s wife and balance fucking scales, but it would gain them nothing except another corpse to bury and renewed hatred from Roman shits.  It would not gain them warriors or supplies.  Agron offered a nod in deference to logic, though it left him with soured stomach and bitter taste upon tongue.  “We will keep watch.”

“Gratitude,” Spartacus replied, grasping Agron’s shoulder and Nasir’s in turn.

They set feet to purpose and minds to task.  Nasir broke no words on their way to the cellar.  As they passed the corridor to their room, Agron asked, “You are armed?”

The reply was short: “Of course.”

Unsure if Nasir’s surly mood was due to the words they’d had regarding Saxa’s use of her own cunt or Agron’s avid support for the death of the Roman bitch, he held tongue.

As Nasir had been in consultation with Camilla when Spartacus had arrived with Glaber’s wife, he had not yet laid eyes upon her.  The sight she made in fine silk dress and carefully arranged hair -- despite taking a dusty and travel-worn turn during her journey here -- was clear reminder of all that the Romans took for themselves, all that they believed owed to them at the cost of life and freedom of others.  If setting eyes upon her did not turn Nasir’s stomach as it did Agron’s, then the stench of her perfume would surely suffice.  Such scented oils had likely cost more than the one hundred denarii that Agron and Duro and the entire fucking lot of slaves had fetched at fucking auction.

Still, Agron almost reached for Nasir to bid him halt and allow Agron to enter the cellar first.  A frightened, cornered beast could yet cause harm.  But Nasir was armed and capable… and would only become more so absent Agron’s protection.

Agron stayed his hand.

Just inside the main chamber of the cellar, Nasir paused and regarded their captive.  She sat against the wall, hands tied and blindfold over eyes.

“A quivering woman,” Nasir appraised with a glance.  His tone was too controlled for Agron to determine what opinion Nasir held of the situation.

Stepping from the corridor to lean opposite, Agron slapped the wall, bored, frustrated, irritated.

Nasir further remarked, “Burdened with child.  She does not appear the deadly serpent you give voice to.”

Agron leaned, pressing back to edge of wall and shifting weight from one foot to the other, settling in, resigning himself to fucking guard duty when he could have been throwing her dead weight to the wolves with a smile.  “She is wife of the fuck who would see us all to grave.”  

“Yet not the man himself,” Nasir argued, offering a glimpse of his true thoughts along with a resolute look.

Though Agron did and always would admire Nasir’s strength of heart, he found sentiment misplaced.  Perhaps the Gaul had deserved sympathy; this creature, however, did not.  Nor would she ever.  With his glare trained upon her form, he broke words hardened with chill: “Crixus speaks of how she took Acer’s life.”  Looking to Nasir, Agron added weight to accusation, “As fucking amusement of celebration.”

Nasir turned back to their captive, jaw clenching.

So.  The stubborn Syrian would yet resist the necessity of killing her.

Agron would not try to sway him beyond ensuring that Nasir kept good sense and blade close at hand, but he would state his own mind: “Her heart is as venomous as Glaber’s or any other Roman shit’s.”

And on the subject of Roman shits, Lucius made timely approach with grasped bowl.  “A familiar sore bleeding from your fucking tongue.”

Exasperated by the reminder -- and, truly, Lucius had proven himself their ally -- Agron defended his choice of words, “You know my meaning Lucius.”

“And mostly share in its low estimation and yet I would hold ourselves to higher standard.”  Lucius winked at Nasir.  Of course the two of them would be of the same fucking mind on the fate of a woman who would see them skinned and fed to feral cats.  Fuck the gods.

Lucius lifted the bowl.  “Food for daily prison.”

Agron glanced down at the porridge then up at Lucius.  With over-sweet tone, he offered, “Shall I draw her a warm bath as well?”

Frowning, Lucius retorted, “Consider me all for the child.  Unless you fear it shall take up sword against you from fucking womb.”

A sudden chuckle escaped Nasir, who promptly cleared his throat at the flat look Agron cast his way.  In spite of the display, Agron was not truly vexed.  The mirth had shattered some of the tension that had held Nasir apart from him.  Perhaps now he would break words.

With a sharp jerk of head, Agron testily granted leave for Lucius to get on with his task and feed the bitch.  The old man ventured over to the far wall and reached for the woman’s blindfold.

Agron and Nasir resumed post, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the entrance, looking on.  Though Agron was pleased that some measure of their discord may have mended, Agron could feel the glower upon his own face.  He rolled his shoulders and shook his head.

He sighed: “Faded years suffer wounded heart.”

Nasir cast a look toward Agron then back to Lucius.

Agron huffed at the futility of the Roman’s gesture: it was a waste of food.  The Roman bitch would die regardless; they could hardly allow her to return to her husband’s fucking arms.  Or at least, not still in possession of her tongue.

Warily, Agron watched their whispered words.  Lucius was clearly being entreated to aid her in escape.  It would have been easy to allow suspicion to overtake him, but Agron recalled how Lucius and Mira had accused Nasir of aiding Chadara in her attempt at betrayal.

He would not stoop to such low fucking level.

Instead, he sent a sidelong glance to Nasir, who was openly watching him in return, questions in his gaze.  Questions that Agron would hear and fucking answer, by the gods.  Yet, Lucius still lingered, either being drawn into a clever scheme or making convincing effort at appearing so.  Agron simply wanted the old man gone.

Nasir blew out a heavy yet soundless sigh.

Agron’s jaw ached from gritted teeth.

Lucius finally took his leave.

They watched Glaber’s wife.  She did not return gaze but closed her eyes, shutting herself away from the fate that awaited.  Agron would leave her to it.  Let her hope for escape and their deaths at her husband’s hands.  The terror and agony would be all the greater when she realized that her life would be ended here, in the dirt.  As Duro’s had.

“Have you broken words with her?” Nasir asked on a breath.

Agron shook his head.

Dark eyes swept Agron’s form.  Seeking.

“Speak thoughts,” Agron invited with a challenging thrust of chin.

“From what source does such hatred spring?”

Agron blinked.  Huffed.  “Do you not also hate Romans?”

“Not by name alone.”

Yes, Nasir’s interaction with Lucius proved that true.  Even Agron could claim tolerance of the man despite occasional exchange of heated words.  But as he himself had told Nasir: it was not uncommon for Agron to quarrel with someone.  If Lucius did not draw his ire, some other unfortunate fuck would have the dubious honor.

Did Nasir assume Agron had no grievance with the praetor’s wife aside from her privileged station?  That Agron merely enjoyed convenience of target?  That Agron would hold her birthplace against her as he did the fucking Gaul?  Though, even in that regard, Agron’s fury was no simple thing.

“Hatred does not spring absent cause,” Agron replied.

“I’ve no doubt there are many.”

Agron shook his head; Nasir did not grasp his meaning.

Glancing at their prisoner, Agron saw no reaction to their softly uttered words.  She appeared lost to slumber.  Still, Agron gestured for Nasir to step into the corridor.  He would not speak his mind in her presence.  Spartacus had asked them to keep the bitch alive, after all, and Agron had not forgotten his instant, blinding fury at the sight of that fuck Trebius.  Had Agron not been restrained from doing more than kicking the shit who had sold Agron and Duro to Batiatus, Agron would have claimed his life with bare fucking hands absent words broken on Naevia’s fate.

Agron knew better than to trust himself with task of self-control when painful memory rose to forefront of mind.

He leaned against wall, arms crossed over chest, and waited.  Even after Nasir joined him, Agron maintained glare upon ceiling, counting steady heartbeats, finding safe pace at which to break words.

Nasir’s patience far exceeded what Agron would have been capable of.  Out of gratitude for that, Agron spoke gently, “That creature is a domina, one who was present when my brother and I were introduced to the ludus along with four others that Batiatus had acquired at auction.”

Agron shook his head, lips caught between sneer and mocking smile at memory.  “She stood above us upon villa balcony at Lucretia’s side.  For what purpose I did not know -- perhaps no other amusement appealed.”

Again, Nasir waited.  Agron chewed upon cheek, making effort not to spit words from tongue: “We were ordered to remove subligaria.”

Agron did not look at Nasir, but he glimpsed reaction.  A flinch of dark brows.  The stiffening of shoulders.

“It is an indignity I am not unfamiliar with.”  The soft tone was weighted with intimate knowledge.

This was why Agron would slay Romans in endless battle: to balance fucking scales for all that they took even as they denied a man any means to resist.  Battles in lands east of the Rhine had been fair: hand to hand, ax to ax, spear to spear.  The victor stood as the man with greater skill and luck.  Man against man.  That was the way it should be.

Sucking in a slow breath, Agron allowed the pressure in his lungs to push aside simmering rage.  “A Gaul among our group made attempt on Spartacus’ life soon after.  I would guess that he was chosen by her and acted on her orders.  After the Gaul was punished for the attempt, I learned of the hatred she holds for Spartacus and he for her, though I still know not the cause.”

Nasir made no comment and Agron briefly escaped the man’s penetrating gaze to close distance toward cellar threshold.  With a quick glance to ensure that Glaber’s wife was finding no mischief, Agron returned to shelter of corridor, choosing to share wall beside Nasir.  The mere sight of her -- it raised hackles.

He gave voice to old fear: “If she had chosen my brother in the Gaul’s place…”

Agron’s hands, while capable of crushing a man’s throat, would have been of no use in thwarting the whims of a single Roman bitch.

“We were playthings,” Agron bit out, finally finding the balance needed to seek Nasir’s gaze.  He held tentative hope for a small portion of the man’s heart to find worth in Agron’s words: “They command us perform for their amusement and then discard us.  Glaber’s wife has already proven to be one of their kind.”

No argument came from Nasir.  Agron had not expected one, though he had held expectation for… something.

After a long moment, Agron felt a touch upon hand and he realized he had curled fingers into tight fists.

“Your brother,” Nasir began, sincere and solemn, “would have fought with _****you****_  at his side.”

Agron’s frown twitched, lips quivering at the quiet confidence of this little Syrian who so carefully watched others and saw into the mind of a man and used words with skill surpassed only by Spartacus.  Although… Agron had been unconvinced by the Thracian’s arguments many times.  Rather, it was Nasir’s words that pierced mind and heart with unavoidable precision.

And Agron now both heard and heeded Nasir’s meaning: neither domina nor dominus could have defeated both Agron and Duro together.  Though those fucking Romans had made attempt to bend will and twist mind, Duro’s spirit had never faltered.  Duro had met death as man yet in possession of his true heart.  A thing worthy of remembrance and admiration, not fear.

A bubble of sharp laughter escaped Agron.  “Gods save me.  You mold me as fucking clay.”

The touch upon hand became a firm grip.  “No man could lay claim to such a boast.”

“There may be one.”  Agron opened his heart with the words.

Nasir turned, reaching for Agron’s jaw.  “No,” he repeated.  “You are a free man.  I stand _****with****_  you.”

Agron nudged Nasir’s chin, not to force or command, but to show that they stood level with each other, eye-to-eye.  They shared middle ground as equals.  “As I would have you stand with me.”

A brief twitch of lips and a twinkle in eyes brought a lightness to Agron’s heart.  “Only the two of us?” Nasir teased.  “You would not invite a third as Saxa might attempt with Nemetes and Gannicus?”

Was this what had caused their earlier discord?  Nasir feared finding himself sharing Agron’s affections with another?

Never.

Agron growled.

Nasir’s smile brightened.

Agron’s next breath was one of helpless enchantment.  “With what intent do you cast fucking look?” he bantered in return, answering that smile with one of his own.

“I consider the many demands I would make.  You may yet wish burden shared.”

Brows arching, Agron pressed, “What would you have of me?”

“All,” Nasir was quick to answer -- _****invite****_  -- voice pitched low and sharp like a blade to groin.

Agron’s entire being stilled, stunned and breathless.

Hands framed Agron’s face.  “What is not claimed by just cause, I would hold as my own.  And for our cause, I would share an equal portion of self.  Stand with you in battle and hold you in heart,” Nasir insisted, “I would have all of you.”

Agron blinked at Nasir’s immovable will: the hard shine of dark eyes, the telltale crease upon brow, the forward jut of chin.

On a murmur, Agron leaned closer invited, “Then do not hesitate to _****take****_  whatever of mine you desire.”

Nasir’s eyes flashed with comprehension and sudden power.  Fingers tensed against Agron’s cheeks and Nasir’s lips curled with fierce satisfaction.  He broke words in a hiss: ****“ This night.  Bare fucking skin.  I am yours.  You, mine.”****

 _ ** **German tongue,****_  Agron realized -- words Nasir had not learned from Agron -- spoken on a sultry rasp…

Fuck.

A shudder rocked Agron’s frame.  A surge of heat and immediate surrender.

Grasping Agron’s cheek and neck, Nasir guided him toward lips even as Agron stumbled forward.  Fingers tugging upon Nasir’s nape prevented his skull from striking the wall, shoulders absorbing the brunt of gentle impact.  Open mouths seeking and fitting, bodies rocking against each other’s -- ah, fuck.  Nasir’s touch -- fingers massaging his cheek and curling tighter against back of neck, tugging him closer, closer, closer to hot breath and long-denied hunger.

He lifted a hand to cradle jaw, but his elbow caught beneath Nasir’s before brushing skin.  Effort abandoned, his mouth clamped down upon Nasir’s lower lip, a softer grip than would be taken by bare teeth, but no less insistent.

A hand upon Agron’s chest.  The slightest pressure.  A push.

He staggered back a step, hand lingering upon Nasir’s neck in lieu of closer embrace… and Nasir allowed it.  An idiotic grin stretched Agron’s mouth wide, carefree in anticipation.

“We must wait,” Nasir protested through a smile which he banished with admirable strength of purpose.  His brows drew together in genuine concern: “Til Spartacus relieves us of charge.”

The mention of Spartacus would have cooled Agron’s blood if Nasir had not chosen that moment to pass tongue over his own lips.

“Time passes too slowly,” Agron argued, shifting onto the balls of feet, waiting for Nasir to relent.

He did.  Smiling broadly with excitement -- had either of them ever behaved as naughty boys sneaking forbidden treats?  Unlikely -- Nasir desired: “We must be quick, then!”

Grasping nape, Nasir pulled him close.  Noses bumped, awkward in their rush for breathless kisses lacking skill and fueled by need.

Agron’s hands cradled and clasped Nasir’s sleek neck.  A hand upon the back of Agron’s skull commanded his mouth remain and continue task.  The other slipped from Agron’s jaw to top of chest and Agron lowered arm to allow for whatever movement Nasir would make.

Fingers clenched in Agron’s hair, bidding him to stay, stay, stay and share breath and lips in messy, kneading clash of mouths.  Nasir’s fingertips traveled the length of Agron’s torso.  Knuckles pressed against belly.  The dangling leather cords of his necklace were captured and given ghostly tug.

Ah, fuck.  Agron would be closer still if he could just--

A warm touch burrowing beneath both cup and cloth, fingers curling around cock--

FUCK.

Knees trembled and he swayed back, mouth open, eyes closed -- the taste of Nasir on his lips and the irresistible squeeze of warm grasp -- overwhelming in the darkness behind eyelids where all sensations doubled intensity.

Nasir.

Chin nearly resting upon chest, Agron opened his eyes, looking into Nasir’s viciously hot smile of victory.

Agron had never been so willing or eager to accept defeat.

Nasir reaffirmed grip upon neck and Agron obeyed, rocking bodily into Nasir’s kiss, mouthing at upper lip, and then the lower.  Pressing brow-to-brow in brief respite, gasping for air.  Fingers sliding into sleek locks of cool hair, struggling for breath.  

Chin lifting, Nasir demanded Agron’s mouth again and -- fuck.  Agron was blinded by need.  Touch and taste and scent overwhelmed him, commanded him to suck upon delicious-tempting-soft flesh.  Nasir’s own lips were closing around his, moving as if discovering hunger for the first time and -- ah… fuck!

“This is how you stand guard?”

The words had not been fully broken before Agron lunged back, tensing for attack, hand upon sword.

But it was only Mira leaning against wall at corridor’s bend.  Smiling.

For someone who fucked as often as she did, she held no claim to smug fucking grin.

Nasir’s hands withdrew.  Agron’s gaze flickered toward him in time to witness the reining in of wanton bliss -- eyes closed in trust and cheeks flushed above slackened jaw -- all vanishing beneath impassive mask.

“Apologies,” Nasir began, and if Agron had not been sharing room and warmth and words with this man for weeks, he would not have heard the thinned quality of voice.  “We were…”

When Nasir faltered, cuing Agron with a helpless gesture, Agron supplied additional explanation, “Uh, we were, we were…”

Meeting Nasir’s gaze, Agron watched Nasir’s lips press together, almost as if pursing in thought, before stretching to bare teeth.  Upon the training yard, such a look would be accompanied by a hiss of frustration at failure.  A deep blush rose to Nasir’s cheeks instead.

Caught between that heated look and their reckless misbehavior, Agron’s hands groped in aimless circles as if words might be netted from air by fingers.  “We were just…”

But of course there were no words apart from the obvious.  Agron chuckled and Nasir’s laughter joined in, mirth further fed by their locked gazes.

“Take to your bed,” Mira ordered and Agron could not find fault in her amusement.  “I will assume watch over Ilithyia.”

No argument would be forthcoming from Agron.

Nasir ducked, wiping at the lingering moisture from their messy kisses with back of hand across cheek.  Tongue quickly wetted well-used lips.  His gaze, when it rose again, held a question that Agron answered with a jerk of his head toward the steps leading out of the cellar and up toward their room.

Nasir preceded him, the picture of contrition if not for quickness of stride, and Agron required a moment to gather calming breath.  There was nothing he could do to stop the helpless grin or the sharp spike of anticipation that nearly had his eyes rolling up into their sockets.

With a slow exhalation, he followed after Nasir, pausing long enough to touch Mira’s back in genuine and heartfelt-- “Gratitude.”

She hummed a short laugh.

Agron did not wait for her to break further words.  He made attempt to quiet his steps lest someone hear and make foolish fucking effort to delay him.

Words were not how he would prefer to utilize mouth, lips, tongue, and breath.

Nasir favored this view as well, reaching for Agron’s face even as the curtain parted beneath hand and Agron crossed threshold.

Lips giving-sharing-taking wet heat and the rush of hastily drawn breath: Agron held on.  His palms pressed against Nasir’s neck, his thumbs rubbed against stubbled cheeks and Agron simply _****held on****_  as quick hands pulled his waist belt free and subligaria loose.

Ah… fuck.

Nasir’s hot mouth withdrew.  Quick hands lifted sword belt and Agron hurriedly shrugged it over head and off of shoulder.  It landed with a _****thump!****_  and palms smoothed down chest and around waist, up from hips and over back, down to buttocks--

Ah, fuck!

A small, desperate noise escaped Agron’s throat as those warm hands slid over skin in sweeping caresses that were reverent rather than greedy, cradling rather than clutching.  Agron’s own followed suit, brushing lightly along neck and shoulders as he turned mouth toward jaw and ear, nibbling between heavy breaths.

A grasp in his hair, a caress against scalp, a gentle nudge at hip found Agron lowering to knees upon bed.  Nasir reached for the fastenings of his short trousers, tugged and tore, shucking them off and revealing bare form.  Another soft noise -- a pained mewl at the sight of such sleek beauty -- escaped Agron.

“Fuck,” he breathed, gaze skimming up over the bandage Nasir yet wore to meet dark eyes that drew nearer as Nasir sank to his knees between Agron’s, hands upon Agron’s shoulders and fingers stirring against throbbing pulse.  Agron whispered helplessly against Nasir’s lips, “You _****are****_  of the gods.”

Palms captured Agron’s face.  “No more than you.”

“I but follow in wake of your hands.”

“As I do yours in battle.”

Agron joined their lips, slipping a quiet groan into Nasir’s mouth as blushing chest pressed against heaving torso and Agron’s shoulders connected with the wall.  At a touch, he widened his knees and Nasir settled against him, hands roving with no aim save that of measuring form.

Yes.  This was what Agron had requested: not a skillful touch, carefully calculated to draw pleasure, but the rush of need, the feel of hands roaming, taking to desired path, seeking and reveling.  Agron’s own glided over shoulders, back, hips, thighs -- searching, chasing, finding, coaxing forth heat and soft gasps.

Thighs shifted.  Bodies pressed together, arousals meeting, sliding, caressing in slow thrusts of hips.  Agron was thankful for the wall at his back, uncaring that the pallet shifted minutely with every rolling motion.  Nasir’s grasp upon his shoulders tightened as the Syrian man strained to burrow closer, and Agron quickly braced wrist and clenched fist beneath ass to hold him level from mouth to groin.

Nasir rocked over him, setting a slow rhythm.  Hands roved again and Agron gasped into his mouth.  When Nasir’s chin tilted, exposing neck, Agron brushed dark hair aside with callused fingertips.  Lips took to offered path, nipping once, twice, nibbling in time with the insistent roll of Nasir’s arching spine.  Lips parted for long, wet kisses over thrumming pulse.  Soft flesh pressed against teeth and Nasir hissed, fingers curling and nails biting into Agron’s arms.

Ah, fuck!

A tug upon Agron’s hair.  He lifted mouth from neck.  Opened eyes to gaze.

Nasir.

The rhythm remained unchanged -- an unhurried and rolling ocean tide -- hard cocks pressed between bellies.  Nasir’s soft hum in Agron’s ear.  A whisper of warm touch over Agron’s arms, shoulders, neck, sides.  Agron’s own questing hand sweeping softly over even softer skin, rough calluses upon palm and fingers gliding, gently chafing, drawing out harsh breaths and pleasant shivers.  Unceasing movement circling passion into tighter and tighter vortex.

A kiss upon lips.  The rasp of tongue sliding within.  Agron tightened lips upon it, biting more gently than Nasir had done to him a day previous.  A hitch of breath, a hiss caught in throat.  Thighs tensing.  Hips pressing nearer.

A withdraw and whisper: “Agron… I’ll not last long.”

Arms flexed, tucking Agron further under Nasir’s weight, seeking only friction of skin, the puff of panting breath, the damp trail left by tongue and streaks of heat in wake of beard and lips.

Agron had long forgotten how to form words.  He returned kisses, mouthed aimlessly at neck and shoulders, brushed fingertips and open palm over smooth skin, carefully skimming wrappings, and felt every thrust and shiver as it passed from Nasir’s body to imprint upon Agron’s skin.

Nasir’s head tilted back and Agron turned to nuzzle throat and jaw, a brief lick, a nip from lips.  Fingertips drifted down the center of Nasir’s spine which bowed helplessly and hips jerked, breath caught.  Agron parted lips to suckle tender flesh below ear, retraced sensitive spine with callused fingers--

Nasir’s hands clenched upon his shoulders.

Breath halted.

A harsh thrust.

And then--

A surge of wet heat against belly and cock and--

A second gush--

Needle pricks of anticipation swept over Agron’s skin--

And a third.

Passion spent, Nasir melted against him, gasping for breath.  Agron groaned at the warm weight and the scent of Nasir and the slick heat of his release and--

Suddenly Agron’s own end was upon him.  The rush of spine-tingling heat and mindless need.  It squeezed his lungs, choked his throat, rolled his eyes up into his skull and--

Death.  This was death, surely, but the darkness turned white -- heat became immolating -- destroying all within his skin.

And yet.

And yet, when the crashing wave receded, Agron was not left in ashes.  He was weak, as weak as a newborn, but he had never been so completely aware of every part his body as his blood thrummed-hummed-murmured in lazy pleasure.

A weight, heated and sticky, fell to his shoulder: Nasir’s forehead, sweaty and flushed.  Agron tilted his head against the damp strands of thick hair.  His fingers upon Nasir’s lower back absently drew slow circles against slick skin.  A sensual shudder rippled through Nasir, who lifted his face and Agron waited for him to turn toward ready lips before bestowing a soft kiss.

Nasir giggled, low and masculine.  Agron’s lips curved in anticipation of his thoughts.

“We rut like desperate boys possessing no notion of how to fuck.”

Agron chuckled.  “If satisfaction is achieved, the method matters not.”

“Hmm.  Welcome words as comforts are in short supply.”

That observation drew forth a bark of laughter.  “And when I emerge with perfumed oils from the next wagon taken, it shall be a tale repeated without end.”

“Spoken only by those who either feel envy--”

“Envy?” Agron repeated, startled.

“--for gaining enthusiastic lover, not for lover himself,” Nasir clarified.

Agron relaxed.  “Hm.  So I will suffer jests out of envy or…?”

Nasir smiled, running his hands over Agron’s cheeks and scalp.  “Or genuine happiness toward such a blessing.”

A blessing.  Yes, by the gods, this was.  They were.  Pleasure taken by freed hands was a blessing in-fucking-deed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it seems likely that the ancient Romans used olive oil (with very large/thick wicks) to light lamps and lanterns. Olive oil could also be used for, erm, certain sexytime activities. Technically, Argon and Nasir have “supplies” at hand for fucking each other delirious, BUT it’s definitely rationed. And, anyway, who wants to walk around smelling like olive oil... incriminating much? So Agron jokes about perfumed oils and Nasir doesn’t correct him because Nasir’s quite happy to enjoy the fact that Agron simply wants to touch him, and wants him badly enough to get off on just that, and -- amazingly -- Agron is completely happy and satisfied with that. For sure, Nasir wants to bask in the novelty.


	14. In Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes, injuries (and gross vomiting)
> 
> Indented text = flashback

Spartacus had made no comment at discovering Agron and Nasir absent post and Mira standing guard in their place.

Agron found it odd only in looking back upon it as he lay abed with Nasir, who leaned into him bonelessly, sleep-slowed breaths pushing sleek belly and rough bandages against Agron’s side.  He counted each of his lover’s silent inhalations and whispered exhales, thoughts circling insistently upon the previous evening like a hawk seeking a meal.

> After taking brief rest, he and Nasir had risen, washed, and collected their evening portions.  Immediately following food passing lips, Nasir grinned at Agron in a manner which was becoming increasingly familiar and welcome.
> 
> A flick of fingers beckoned him to return to the depths of the temple and found him quickly disrobed and braced upon pallet, Nasir sheltered beneath him.  Slow kisses and slower hands.  Agron cradled Nasir’s head, glossy hair brushing over palm and fingers as he leisurely mapped bare skin.
> 
> Nasir claimed Agron’s mouth with lips, his scalp with clawed fingers, his nape with palm.  Right thigh between Agron’s.  Left knee bent at Agron’s hip.  A pause to allow sharpening desire to fade before a hand upon Agron’s side coaxed forth a thrust, a caress of cock upon cock.
> 
> They burned.  A slow fire that swelled with heat before cooling… only to be given breath again.
> 
> Some might say it cruel to build passion only to impose delay over and over, but Agron was not tormented.  Time was a limited luxury.  Room away from others a gift.  To not take full advantage of both would be wasteful.
> 
> When Nasir directed both hands down Agron’s chest to close grasp around surging arousals, Agron voiced no complaint save for the soft moan he passed to Nasir’s ear.  Would that this moment would have no end.  Would that countless more would follow.
> 
> “You first,” Nasir desired and Agron placed himself in those capable hands.  Hips rolling helplessly in pursuit of the primal wave that had overcome him earlier.  Chasing it -- finding it -- falling into its depths of breath-stealing heat, he gasped out with each gush of seed, forcing his own eyes open to watch how Nasir’s blush deepened and lips parted.
> 
> A moment to breathe.  To return to awareness.  To gather strength.
> 
> And then Nasir reached for the hand Agron had curled around the edge of the pallet.  He reached for Agron’s hand and placed it upon hard cock made slippery with Agron’s release.  There were not enough kisses to be had.  There was not enough skin to be tasted.  But Agron was determined to have all.
> 
> Nasir’s hands, sticky and hot, clutched his shoulders, nails digging shallow furrows in unbroken skin.  The pain of flesh yet bruised from recent fight and tumble upon stone called forth the man who had thrived in a Roman ludus.  Agron embraced the pain as he embraced Nasir’s pleasure, the touch of his rough calluses made bearable upon sensitive, hard flesh with aid of slick seed.
> 
> When Nasir’s release spilled from beautifully formed cock, Agron was given a blinding smile.  More joy than a body ought to hold.  It was not the first time Agron suspected Nasir to be of a world not inhabited by mortal man.
> 
> “Freedom,” Nasir whispered when he found voice to do so.  “I owe many thanks to the one who granted it, so that I may now know it at your hands.”
> 
> “I use but one,” Agron teased between soft press of lips along shoulder, chest, neck.
> 
> Nasir laughed aloud.  “You know my meaning.”
> 
> “I do.  We shall both thank that man.”
> 
> The man who had looked deep into Nasir -- and into Agron -- and seen something of worth.  The man who had given direction to blind rage and purpose to unshackled hands.  The man who had shown them greater path.
> 
> Spartacus.

As Nasir slept at Agron’s side, Agron frowned into the shadows cast by flickering flame.  Agron had left his charge; he had not followed orders; he had broken his word so soon after pledging to follow the Thracian.

How had he not earned reprimand?

When dawn broke, Nasir woke Agron with touch and they came together in quiet haste, mouths pressed against arching neck and rolling shoulders, Nasir’s hands guiding Agron’s hips in a relentless rhythm meant to hurry them toward release.  Agron found his between Nasir’s thighs, balls slapping and cocks rubbing and -- fuck -- Agron could only hold his weight off of Nasir and answer demands of lover’s hands.

“Do we train today?” Nasir inquired, still breathless.

“If strength permits,” Agron groaned, nosing a lock of hair free from where it had stuck to Nasir’s sweaty neck.

Splayed hands roamed softly up Agron’s aching arms.  “Strength is not as endless as it appears?”

“If limit exists,” Agron replied, lifting his head to share bemused grin, “you will fucking find it.”

A kiss upon Agron’s chin sparked a joyous smile.  “I take up challenge gladly.”

Shaking his head on a tired laugh, Agron made no attempt to dissuade.  Neither did he attempt to redirect Nasir’s attention from the coming meeting with Spartacus.  When Agron presented himself for scolding, Nasir was as fucking shadow clinging to his side.

And when Spartacus merely lifted a brow in question at their expectant silence, Agron snapped, “By the gods, you know we did not hold to fucking charge as commanded.”

“I know not by way of gods, but by Mira.  Her intentions were made clear.  I find no fault with either of you.”

“Her intentions?” Agron queried with a squint, glimpsing something hidden in Spartacus’ careful words.  Nasir tensed, his focus sharpening as well.

Spartacus smiled as if face were carved from wood.

“Do not cast such fucking look.  I no longer withhold words from _****you.”****_

With a small sigh, the Thracian relented, “Mira sought only to protect me.”

Nasir drew a sudden breath as Agron’s fists clenched, Spartacus’ meaning made clear to both.  “A thing she knows you capable of with own fucking hands.”

“Yes.  She does.”  Spartacus renewed his smile and, gazing from Agron to Nasir, he added, “The matter is resolved.”

“And Glaber’s wife?”

“Yet lives.  We may soon be rid of her to our advantage.  Lucius has set foot on errand of importance.”

Agron and Nasir shared a look.  It was Nasir who reported, “They spoke at length when Lucius delivered her meal.  I have been told--”  Dark eyes turned briefly to Agron.  “--that she is devious.”

“Yes, Lucius shared with me the words she broke to him.  She offered him his heart restored.”

Agron snorted.  “She offered to breathe life into fucking corpse?”

“She claimed her husband held such powers.”  Spartacus smirked.  “I believe Lucius will gain a great deal of satisfaction proving the limits of what a man -- even a praetor -- may do.”

“Would that I could lay eyes upon their exchange,” Agron huffed in sarcastic amusement.

“Lucius is a fair storyteller,” Nasir offered.

Spartacus agreed.  “I expect his report will be… entertaining and enlightening in equal measures.”

It was.  Upon Lucius’ arrival at just after nightfall, all training in the temple yard ceased.  The plan, as Spartacus had explained it during evening meal, would proceed: the meeting would be held at coming sunrise.

Agron stepped away from Donar and approached Spartacus, raising both head and voice: “If three are all that can be seen with you, I will count myself among them.”

“As would I,” the Gaul declared, rolling his baleful gaze toward Agron, “despite the company.”

Weary of the incessant slights against him -- truly, their habitual hatred had grown beyond ridiculous -- Agron’s answering glare was brief.  He had no words to break on the Gaul’s displeasure; the man would find no peace from any utterance that might leave Agron’s mouth.  The only matter of importance was the one at hand: the dawn meeting with Glaber in the walled village of Atella.

Though the terms of the exchange -- a wagon of weapons for the release of the praetor’s wife from rebel hands -- allowed for only three men to accompany Spartacus and three with Glaber, Spartacus heeded Mira’s words of caution.  She and Lucius took up bow and arrow, concealed in shadows in case of need.

Spartacus found shelter in the street behind the east-facing buildings of the square.  The Gaul took up watchful post facing north beside Gannicus, who had volunteered in Oenomaus’ stead.  Agron neither felt nor voiced complaint at being directed to a narrow side alley to cover the southern view.  They had no reason to believe Glaber would hold to agreement; none of them could afford to stand alone.  They would have to be each other’s eyes until they were safely away.

As time stretched out in gloom and silence, Agron thought of a simple pallet upon hard floor.  

He thought of guiding hands and shared breath.

He thought of Nasir.

He thought of words broken moments before setting foot to path: “I am for Atella with Spartacus, Crixus, and Gannicus.”

Nasir had not been surprised.  They had shared a look at evening meal when Spartacus had made announcement on the purpose of Lucius’ errand.  Agron had not asked -- and would _****never****_  ask -- for leave to follow Spartacus in facing Roman fucks.  Nasir had smiled and nodded once.

Some hours later, when all had been settled and departure imminent, Agron had stolen a moment with Nasir away from prying eyes and leaned down for a tender kiss.

“You know what I would say,” Nasir had breathed against Agron’s lips.

Agron had pressed his brow to Nasir’s and nodded.  “You know what I will do to see it done.”

And he would.  Agron would do whatever was required to ensure that he returned to Nasir still in possession of life and health.  Of both himself and Spartacus.

The sun was pissing pink and gold upon the horizon when Glaber and the demanded wagon entered through city gate.  The wagon itself was wooden, covered to conceal contents, yet Glaber’s three companions were easily sighted.

Spartacus stepped out first, answering the praetor’s bellow.

Agron shook his head and joined those in the square.  The more words passed in terse exchange, the less hope Agron held for successful trade.  Glaber was delaying.  His guards too content with their charge.  Betrayal would be attempted by the Roman shit, though Agron knew not by what method.

Dour expectations proved true as Agron cautiously approached the wagon, drew open the side door to inspect contents, and was kicked in fucking face.  The wagon had indeed been weighted with weapons… as well as fucking mercenaries whose hands yet grasped them.

Agron rolled aside, gained feet, drew sword in swift motion, and met opponents as they swooped in.  He did not engage the first but cast the man a fair distance away before facing the second.  A third lunged toward him and was knocked aside.  By then, the first had recovered and Agron fought and kicked and punched, sorting and juggling the fucks with well-learned timing.

Clashing steel and battle roars echoed in the sleepy town.  This was not the arena, where a man could face opponents with full focus.  This was not a villa, where a wall was presented at back and boredom-dulled guards bumbled forth in a tide for slaying.

This was the uprising of the ludus.  This was the chaos of churning bodies and slashing blades.  This was a swirling current of certain death.

An elbow to the chin sent Agron rocking back upon heel, but he did not need full use of gaze to strike blow.  Agron’s arm swung, smashing into face of opponent and as Agron regained his footing the man lost his completely.

Another darted in to attack.  A backhanded blow from armored fist.  Agron spun about, crashing to knees at the wagon's open doorway, striking head above smarting nose and losing sense of surroundings.  Ears ringing.  Vision flashing black and white and black again.

Spartacus’ roar -- “Now!” -- sounded as if from a great distance, warbling like a bird call.  Agron grabbed for a handhold, a firm grasp on something that would not wobble under his weight and topple him to ground.

And then--

The sound of Roman horn.

Fuck.

Agron roused himself, head spinning and brain sloshing between ears as he turned to look back over shoulder.  Arrows flew past -- Lucius and Mira doing their part.  A necessity that Spartacus had considered abandoning at temple was now set to purpose.

“Fall back!”

Staying low, Agron lunged for what cover could be gained within alleyway and street beyond.  Gannicus soon joined him.  Crixus came next.  Still, the whistle of arrows ripped through the morning and he felt the sound as he would whip lashes across brow: Mira and Lucius yet loosened arrows upon Glaber’s men.  Agron turned upon the next street, which spun and slid beneath his feet, but did not trip him.

Agron braced for a wave of Roman resistance, but found none.  Behind him, he saw Gannicus and Crixus hastening toward the path they had scouted which would most easily lead them over the city wall, but Agron did not set eyes upon Spartacus.

He skidded to a halt.  His head screamed in agony as he shifted weight to turn back--

Mira and, at her heels, Spartacus sprinted around the corner building.

Agron took to foot, the roaring of blood in his head -- fuck the gods, his skull was surely split open -- spurred him forward, deafening his ears to sound of pursuit.  Glaber’s men must be there.  Roman shits did not blow horn for fucking entertainment.

Spartacus boosted Mira up to Gannicus -- the fucking Celt was as a cat favoring high ledges.  Crixus reached arm down for Spartacus.  Agron saw himself up, head spinning and nails scraping.  Fuck, his head.  Death would be a mercy.

Nasir would not be pleased.

This thought circled through Agron’s mind as he nearly tumbled from the top of the wall and landed hard on the other side.  Pulling himself up and shoving off from what should have been a stable surface, Agron lurched after the others.  He had no memory of the dash toward cover of trees; the next moment he was able to endure the world was yet spinning -- rough bark beneath hand, bile searing up throat, skull cracking down center as he heaved.

Fuck.

A shoulder under his arm: Spartacus.  “Follow my lead, brother.  We must get you back to Nasir.”

Agron groaned.  Spat out the acid burning his tongue.  Rasped: “Gods save us both.  You know not his fury.”

The Thracian chuckled.  “I have a notion.  He did make attempt to kill me once.”

“And will succeed with me.  I am for the afterlife.”

“Can he not find some use for you should you remain among the living?”

“You would condemn a man to such a fate.”

“Ah, your uplifted spirit warms heart.”

“Close fucking mouth.”

“Yet complaints speed your steps.”

Agron’s vision blurred with moisture, eyes stinging in the growing light.  His pulse pounded through his temples like a line of fucking Roman cavalry.  Or perhaps that was Gannicus’ fucking chortling rollicking between Agron’s ears.

“Your boy must be fierce to make such an impression through that thick skull,” the fucking Celt observed.  “Mira tells that your head was a target of late, receiving blows from the fists of a brute even larger than you.”

Agron snarled… and swiftly regretted it as pain exploded between his eyes.

Gannicus prattled on, “What possessed you take on such a beast with bare fucking hands?”

“Naevia.”

“Crixus’ woman?”

Agron grunted.  “Beast’s attentions were unwelcome.”

“Whereas you welcome a sound thrashing?”

“My kin,” Agron wheezed.  “My charge.  I gave my word.”

Spartacus agreed, “Yes, you did.  Gratitude, Agron.”

“None fucking deserved.  We have already broken words on this.”

“And what words have you prepared for Nasir?”

“Fuck the gods.”

Gannicus laughed.  “I do not think that will aid you.”

The Celt’s words proved true.  Agron could not meet Nasir’s gaze upon arrival.  Not even when the Syrian man broke away from training exercise with Naevia, tossing sword to ground and ducking beneath Agron’s other arm.

Still squinting in the searing light of day -- the fucking gods had made the sun ten times brighter just to torment him -- Agron growled, “Your fucking wound--!”

“Has made me Camilla’s apprentice.”

“I require no aid.”

Agron’s protest was ignored.  He was taken to the blessedly shadowed room he shared with Nasir and lowered to bed.  Cool, damp cloth was placed over his eyes and brow.

“Rest, brother.”  Spartacus promised: “Camilla comes soon.”

Agron sighed at the sound of retreating footsteps.

“Is Glaber dead?” Nasir asked.

“No, the fuck yet lives.”

“And your head remains upon neck.”

A thing Agron would normally wish for.  At the moment, however… not so much.

The familiar shuffling steps of Camilla interrupted Nasir’s next remark.  To her very fucking kindly greeting -- “What ills have you brought upon yourself?” -- Agron managed a grunt.

He suffered her poking and prodding.

He answered her fucking questions:

Yes, he had hit his head.

Yes, fuck the gods, it had happened more than once: a fall, back of skull striking ground, and not long thereafter a shove, forehead hitting wooden fucking wagon.

“It was a fucking battle,” he sniped.

“Any additional blows?” she pressed tersely, clearly not appreciating his lack of cooperation.

“Elbow to chin.  Backhand to face.”

She harrumphed and, when she next spoke, the words were directed to the side.  “See that he rests.  Do not allow him to sleep for long duration.  Continue cool cloths.  No midday meal unless stomach seems agreeable--”

It was not, but Agron offered no comment.

“--I will return before evening meal unless sent for.”

“Gratitude, Camilla.”

The woman took her leave and the silence that remained in her wake pushed against Agron’s ears until he was gritting his teeth.  By the gods, waiting for Nasir to fucking break words was worse than--

“Do you present head as fucking target?” Nasir hissed.

Agron’s lips quirked.  “Such sweet words I have traveled fair distance to hear.”

“An impressive feat given that head is yet lodged in ass.”

A puff of laughter from Agron’s belly accompanied the remark.

“You find this amusing?”

“No.  I find it fucking painful.  Would that head would split open and be done with it.”

Nasir leaned close enough for Agron to feel breath upon lips as he spoke heated whisper: “Be grateful I do not claim it for safe-keeping!  For I question _****your****_  use of it.  If it is used at all.”

Agron sighed, at a loss for defense.  He simply hurt too much to bother.

He sensed a stirring in the air as Nasir leaned away.  “I remove your belts and weapons,” he warned and Agron lay still, submitting to deft fingers and lifting hips to aid endeavor.

Agron’s lips twitched in a smile of genuine relief when Nasir unbuckled the sword belt and slid it free of Agron’s back and chest in an effort which did not require him to lift head or shoulders.

“Nose is unbroken?” Nasir whispered.

“Uncertain.  Is there blood?”

“A fair amount.  Hold a moment.  I place hand.”

Soft touch upon the bridge of Agron’s nose.  The skin buzzed unpleasantly, his brow throbbing, but otherwise, it felt undamaged.  “Intact,” Agron reported.

“I find the same.  Keep eyes closed.  Cloth grows warm.  I would dampen it again.”

It was lifted, wetted, wrung out, and replaced.  Agron murmured, “I do not require nursing.  Resume your training.”

A touch along his jaw was followed by another damp cloth upon upper lip.  Agron nearly frowned before he recalled the presence of blood.  The gentle dabs of soft cloth roused his irritation and prompted Agron to snap, “Scrub skin.  I’ll not fall to fucking pieces.”

“I would take time,” Nasir replied, a fingertip ghosting across the shell of ear.

“Do not waste time.”

“It is not wasted.”

“It takes you away from training.”

“You cannot force me to resume.”

“I can order--”

“I can ignore order.”

Agron huffed.  Cloth-in-hand lifted and, a moment later, returned cooler than before to pat at the corner of mouth and chin.  Having no memory of blood there, Agron grunted in question.

“Your belly emptied,” Nasir explained and, at the recollection of bile burning throat and coating tongue, Agron’s shame was made complete.

“I would take water,” he sighed, defeated.

“Food?”

“No.  Only water.”

When Nasir warned him of a touch beneath his head, lifting him to drink from half-filled cup, Agron embraced the pain as he guzzled sweet water.  Draining the cup, his head was lowered to a soft cushion.  He lifted a hand to blindly investigate it.

“My tunic,” Nasir answered and Agron fumbled for the Syrian man, finding knee before his hand was trapped by Nasir’s grasp.

“Gratitude,” he breathed.

“Between us, none are needed.  You have done the same for me in exchange.”

Heart swelled within chest until the pressure nearly rivaled that within skull.  He clutched at Nasir’s hands, both caught in the grip of Agron’s one, and scrabbled for words.

He found none.

Nasir’s thumbs rubbed over back of hand.  “Who taught you to weave sleeping mats?”

Agron’s lips tilted at the corners into a disbelieving smile.  “You would interrogate me now?”

“I would keep you from slumber.  As directed by Camilla.”

“And you now choose to use words for such a task?”

Nasir chuckled.  “Shall I wash your hair instead?”

“Fucking Syrian.”

A soft giggle.  “Perhaps.  If you follow instruction and allow battered head to heal.”

An unconquerable smile stretched Agron’s lips from ear to ear.

Nasir grunted.  When he spoke, the words were amused and exasperated: “Fucking German.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rule about not sleeping following a concussion (which Agron has) is apparently a myth. (I am not a medical professional, so I do not know. I used my Google powers to look into the issue.) Sleep is actually good for the brain, but it’s possible that the medicine of the day would recommend that the person stay awake and alert for several hours because, obviously, the ones who couldn’t do this were often the ones who ended up in comas and died shortly thereafter. So, medicum incorrectly deduce that wakefulness is preferable? Anyway. Let's just go with it, yeah?
> 
> Watching Season 2 Episode 8, I noticed that Agron’s head took a lot of abuse and he wasn’t shown actually killing anyone in the Atella fight. Clearly, he’s having a bad day; mercenaries or no mercenaries, I'm pretty sure there would have been some blood at least… so maybe Agron's still feeling the effects of his run-in with Sedullus? I figured it’s possible he could have gotten a concussion. More on how this leads into Episode 9 in the following chapter.


	15. Failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mention of canon CHARACTER DEATH (Lucius), Duro FEELS

Agron was almost glad for Camilla’s promised visit.  Nasir had questioned him and poked him every time the silence had begun to settle.  Just as the quiet would become as warm bath upon sore body, it was broken by one fucking thing or another.

Agron was ready to strangle the shit.

“Camilla arrives.  I shall leave you in her care.”  Nasir sounded tired, his cheerful tone forced.

Agron swallowed.  Words of apology knocked against each other like stones in Agron’s empty guts, but he did not trust himself to speak after so many hours spent absent slumber.

He listened to the retreat of Nasir’s quiet footsteps, sighing as the cloth was lifted from his face.

“Has the pain worsened?” Camilla asked.

“No.”  But neither had it lessened: whenever it faded enough for Agron to dare shift his weight, he was once again left in flaring agony.

“Hm.  I see Nasir cleaned you up.”  She muttered, “I’m sure that was a pleasant experience you’d care to repeat.”

A spike of shame drove through his chest.  “Tolerable,” he corrected.

“It would not have been so under anyone else’s hands.  Fortunately, Nasir has a gentle touch.”  She sent Agron a hard look.  “And much patience.”

“I am aware.”

“Good.  Eat.  Take rest.  Do not move.”

Agron doubted he could.  However, he would be in dire need of relieving his bladder soon.  He made no effort to mention this to Camilla.

She took her leave.  He closed his eyes.  Some time later, a soft sound roused him from sleep.  Agron squinted at Nasir.  He sat upon a sleeping mat that had not been there earlier, his bare back to Agron and shoulders slumped.  The sound came again and Nasir lifted a hand to scrub at his own face.

With the aid of light from the oil lamp, Agron placed hand upon the curve of Nasir’s shoulder.  “Lucius was lost?” Agron whispered.

Nasir nodded, straightening under the touch.  “Spartacus told he remained in Atella.  To hold Glaber’s men from pursuit.”

Agron had not known this.  He said, “Apologies.”

“He made choice.”

Mouth scrunching into a brief frown, Agron blew out a breath.  “Apologies for my treatment of you.”

“You yet suffer considerable pain.”

Agron huffed.  “And you yet suffer my presence.  Gratitude.”

“Apologies _****and****_  gratitude.  Here lies an Agron I’ve not made acquaintance with.”

“Seize him quickly lest he turn rude and brutish once more.”

Nasir looked over his shoulder, grinning.  His cheeks were dry in the faint light.  “Perhaps I prefer rude and brutish.”

Agron barked out a laugh.  “Fuck!” he grunted through the starburst of pain in his forehead… and then exhaled a long, hissing breath as cool, damp cloth returned to brow.

“Lucius will be missed,” Nasir softly confided, “but now he is with those he loves in the afterlife.  And mine is yet with me in this one.”

Opening his eyes, Agron nudged at Nasir’s arm, tugging until the Syrian man leaned close enough for a tame kiss.  Their lips parted on a prickle that caused Agron’s fingers to twitch where they loosely grasped Nasir’s neck and this earned him a second soft kiss.  A quiet hum was rewarded with a third.

When Nasir sat up, Agron strove to keep him close.  “Would you tell me of Lucius?  As you knew him?  If memory is kind.”

Nasir smiled, sad on one side and awestruck on the other.  “Yes.  If you eat now, I will tell.”

It was then that Agron realized he would have to move to accomplish task.  Gritting his teeth, he prepared to roll onto his side.  A hand upon the center of chest stopped him.  Nasir shook his head, lifting two portions of flat bread: Agron’s and Nasir’s from the midday meal.

“I claimed your porridge,” Nasir admitted.

Agron grinned.  “This once, I have no complaint.”

“And now you are absent complaints.  New Agron is unsettling.”

He held out his hand for the bread.  “And he would feed own fucking mouth.”

Nasir insisted on washing Agron’s hands first.  Fuck the gods.  Had he not burned with shame at being so fucking helpless, he would have enjoyed the silken slide of water and intimate touch between fingers and across palm.

Well.  He enjoyed it regardless.  But he would have enjoyed it more absent fucking blows taken to head.

As he ate, Nasir spoke of Lucius, and Agron realized that Nasir had been as well-educated as the old Roman shit.  The two men had discussed literature and politics.  Agron knew none of the tales or great men of old that Nasir spoke of.

After supping and drinking three additional cups of water, Agron confessed to his other bodily needs.  Nasir had prepared well in anticipation of them.  Under the Syrian man’s direction, Agron rolled his hips to one side without jostling head.  Nasir steadied his hip and Agron took his own cock in hand to piss in the provided bowl, one that had been used to excavate the tunnel.

As Nasir departed to dispose of the contents, Agron rearranged subligaria.  The Syrian man’s declaration of love could only be true; for what other reason would he tend to Agron so patiently?

“Take rest beside me,” Agron invited, still awestruck by Nasir’s confession.

“I will jostle you from slumber.”

“You will hold me steady so I do not shift absent forethought.”

“Stubborn German.”

Agron drifted back to sleep with an arm across Nasir’s shoulders and a smile upon his lips.

The following morning, Nasir rose and fetched Spartacus -- “He asked to be told when you woke.” -- and Agron found himself able to sit up to receive the man.  His head still ached, but the pain was bearable if movement was not sudden.

“Camilla tells you will live,” the Thracian said from the doorway, announcing his presence.

“Glad news.”

Coming into the room, Spartacus settled upon the sleeping mat Nasir had not used the night before.  Bracing arm upon uplifted knee, he agreed, “Yes.  Nasir seems pleased.”

Agron resisted shaking his head, but he allowed the sarcastic smile.  “He has some use for me, then.”

Spartacus smirked, a brief motion of lips that quickly faded.  “I would have you give thought to a matter today.”

Agron’s eyes narrowed in speculation.  “The matter being?”

“The strengthening of temple defense and preparation for sudden flight.  Should either be necessary.”

Of course it would be fucking necessary.  Not unless they moved camp soon.  However, Agron had assumed these issues would be some time in coming.

“We do not defend adequately at present?”  This was surprising and unwelcome news.

Spartacus’ hand curled tightly, fingers kneading palm.  “Glaber’s wife has been released.”

“Repeat fucking words.”

Spartacus raised a hand to stay Agron’s wrath.  “I gave Nasir my word I would aid your healing, not impede it.”

Jaw clenching, Agron forced a calming breath.  “She will lead her fuck of a husband to us.”

“I took precautions, but it is possible.”

“Fuck the gods, Spartacus.”

“I would have you tend to the outer defenses.  Prepare watch and rotation of guard.  See everyone properly skilled and set to task.”

“It will be done by end of day.”

“No.  Oenomaus has not yet finished with your kin.  Tomorrow is soon enough.  Give the matter thought -- and only thought -- today.”

Thought.  As if he could do little else.  Fuck the gods.  Of course Spartacus would speak of giving Roman shits memorable fucking welcome as Agron sat uselessly upon ass.  Agron’s hands fisted, hollow with no sword to grasp.

“Spartacus broke words that cause discontent,” Nasir noted when he returned with midday portions.

“I stand charged with temple defense,” he grumpily reported.  Accepting the offered bowl and bread, he added, “Fucking guard duty.”

“Perhaps we impressed him with our attention to prisoner.”

Agron smirked, blowing out a breath of amusement.  “Punishment for lack of.”

“Then why am I not also charged?”

With a reproving glance, Agron reminded him, “You have not stood at his side since ludus uprising.”

Nasir nodded, but the gesture was absent agreement.  “You have fought at his side.”

“What of it?” Agron demanded in burgeoning exasperation.  It was unlike Nasir to rub salt in wounds.

Dark eyes pinned him with a penetrating look.  “You do not share well.”

“I share all with you!”

“I do not speak of what you give me.”  Nasir tilted his head to the side.  “You would stand on the front line of oncoming battle.  You would lead the charge.  You would have all see you there.”

If Nasir knew this, then how could he begrudge Agron’s frustration?  At a loss, Agron frowned, lifting free hand in a gesture of impatience for point to be made.

With a crooked smile, Nasir pressed, “You find no satisfaction in enabling others to do the same?”

Blinking, Agron found himself turning the concept over in his mind.  “Spartacus would have me command?”

“This is not something you desire?”  The possibility of Agron’s refusal seemed to puzzle Nasir.

“I…” Agron cleared his throat.  “The move to Vesuvius…”

“Holds many differences.”

True words: Agron had defied Spartacus.  Those who had set foot toward Vesuvius had done so for the sake of their own lives, not for a greater cause.

“In the arena, a man who stands alone may win,” Nasir admitted.  “But in a battle, that same man will fall.”

Setting the half finished stew aside, Agron reached for Nasir, asking with a sweeping touch for the man to close distance between them.  Smiling, he complied, crouching over Agron’s outstretched legs and ducking down for a slow kiss.  Agron’s lips parted in invitation, but fingertips upon his cheek stayed pursuit when Nasir withdrew.

Agron let him go with a soft smile and caress upon neck.  “You trained this morning.”  Fingertips stirred over lingering dust upon tacky skin.

“There is much ground to cover if I am to become as skilled as my instructor.”

Chuckling, Agron allowed, “You could best him today.”

Caressing unshaven jaw, Nasir insisted, “I do not seek to ‘best’ him.”

No, he did not.  Even on the occasions when they had sparred in the past, Nasir had not moved to defeat Agron, but to better himself, to meet expectation, to stand equal.

“You could slay a man with words.”

“That runs contrary to my intentions toward this one.”

Camilla had implied Agron blessed in regards to Nasir’s affections.  He agreed with greater fervor now than ever.

Nasir turned, slumping against the wall beside Agron, elbows brushing as he continued eating.  “What can I bring to aid endeavor assigned by Spartacus?”

“Delivery has already been met,” Agron replied, collecting his bowl.  He gave Nasir a wondering smile.

Despite the assurance, Nasir returned shortly after taking their used dishes away with hands full of dried rushes.  “While hands are occupied in familiar task, inspiration may take opportunity to visit.”

Agron chuckled but did not argue.  He returned Nasir’s knowing grin with a smirk and set about both mundane task and reply to Spartacus’ challenge.  He wove not a sleeping mat, but a belt that his Syrian would fucking suffer to wear or else discover how stubborn men from east of the Rhine could truly be.

He entertained thoughts of wrestling Nasir to the mat and wrapping him up in the braided length of rushes, but acknowledged that aching head might allow for nothing more than a sincere pout.  Duro had always been better at affecting all manner of expressions.

Duro had been better at so many things.  None of which had aided him following their capture.

When Nasir delivered their evening meal, Agron silently offered the belt.  No words were needful.  In fact, Agron could barely bring himself to meet questioning gaze.  But as the moment stretched and silence thickened, Nasir drew close and knelt between Agron’s knees, bowls of stew in each hand as Agron wound the creation around his lover’s hips.  It was a good fit.

Nasir thanked him with a smile, with sparkling dark eyes, and a slow kiss.

Agron’s heart yet ached with memory and loss, but the presence of his Syrian focused Agron’s intent.  Spartacus had set him formidable task.  He would see it done.  Agron would not fail again.

The following day, however, Agron was tempted to claim a large ax to aid his purpose.  Or perhaps a heavy hammer.  Fuck, even a rock would do.  There was no other way to get twenty stubborn, contrary German fucks to practice drills in unison.  Agron eventually settled on rotations of smaller groups to cover necessary tasks.

The temple corridors and tunnel to Vesuvius were checked regularly to ensure that path remained clear for smooth flight.

Supplies and weapons -- bows and arrows and spears -- were bundled neatly and stored in the cellar, waiting for hands to convey them through the tunnel.

Food and water was also placed in the cellar and set to be rotated regularly lest mold or age turn them unpalatable.

Training was conducted in the yard itself with swords and spears.

Archery practice was held at the edge of the clearing.

And, of course, scouts were sent along the perimeter and lookouts at both the top of wall and mountain trail posted.

Yes, Agron had given the matter of defenses careful consideration.  In-fucking-deed.

The first day was chaos.  The only thing to recommend it was the fact that clouds cast welcome shadows to soothe Agron’s lingering headache and watering eyes.

Nasir collected both of their morning and afternoon meals, pressing small portions of food into Agron’s hands at every opportunity: in between his shouts at one simple fuck after another for abandoning task before relieved of charge (Nasir and Agron exchanged knowing smirks over this); when he took rest from translation of Oenomaus’ instructions; following calls for training forms at those assembled with weapons; and during reception of reports from those returning from either scouting or lookout duty.

That evening, after setting the first shift of night watch, Nasir caught Agron’s eye and jerked his chin toward the temple.  Agron wearily followed, pleased to discover their evening meals waiting within their room.  Peace.  Quiet.  Food.  Brief rest: Nasir pushed at him until Agron laid down upon belly so Nasir could rub some of the tension from Agron’s neck and shoulders.

Then they moved the pallet back onto the portico for rest.  The clouds that had been a blessing during the day became a bothersome obstacle at night as they blocked the stars, without which it was impossible to gauge time accurately.  Scouts reported in after completing three perimeter treks, at which time more were sent out and the lookouts upon wall’s top relieved of duty.

Agron did not sleep much.

Neither did Nasir, who shared the pallet -- and thus all interruptions -- with him.

Just before dawn, Nasir and Lugo took watch along the wall.  Agron made attempt at slumber, but found his gaze fixed on Nasir.  Lugo broke words with him which Agron could not hear, but Nasir would only shake his head in response, maintaining silence.  Hm, yes.  Pairing them together for the watch had been a wise choice: if needed, Lugo would bellow a warning to wake the dead and Nasir’s steady, unflinching focus would see task done, minute by minute.

The sun rose in silence.  A new day; no Romans.

And it all began again.

The second day progressed smoothly, for the most part.

The third ran as a well-maintained water mill.

On the fourth day, Spartacus stood pleased and impressed, grasping Agron’s shoulder in gratitude.  Though the gesture was appreciated, Agron said, “I will pass your praise on to those who make effort.”

Upon the fifth day, as Agron was calling out forms for practice and Oenomaus was scolding reckless maneuvers, a familiar figure cut across the yard to join the men and women awaiting instruction.

Nasir.

Agron frowned, squinting in question though he did not break from charge to inquire.  However, there was something different about the man.  He stood taller, a smirk upon his lips.  It wasn’t until Nasir had been called forth to face one of Agron’s kin and display combat skills for the first time that Agron realized what was truly changed: Nasir tossed his tunic aside, exposing his torso completely.  His unbandaged torso.

Agron nearly choked, eyes trained upon the vivid pink scar that Nasir wore with pride.

He moved to take up wooden sword -- in the past days, someone had carved it to more closely resemble a gladius -- but Saxa held it mockingly out of his reach.  Grinning, Nasir ducked under her arm, and jabbed elbow to side.  She stumbled back and Nasir swept her feet out from under her with a neat spin.

Laughing in the dust, she relinquished the weapon without further challenge.  Nasir held out an arm to help her to her feet.  With a wet kiss to the Syrian man’s cheek, she sent him off toward Oenomaus.

Nemetes scoffed at being paired with a former body slave and Agron smirked.  The dim fuck would pay for not learning the lesson Nasir had just taught Saxa.

Agron called a break, no longer bothering to pretend to give any shit whatsoever for the training forms, and grinned with vicious enjoyment as Nasir faced Nemetes with dark eyes flashing.

“Begin!”

Nemetes obliged the command.  Nasir blocked well and twisted aside to deflect attack, opening up the man’s lower back to a swift blow.  The German man flinched away far enough to avoid all but a brief sting, recovering too slowly.

His second blow knocked Nasir’s weapon hand aside and, for a moment, Nasir was completely open to attack.  And then he launched, shoulder-first, at Nemetes’ chest.  His weight and strength, driven from leg and knee, sent the German down onto his back.  Nasir’s wooden blade swept through the air toward opponent’s throat.  Nemetes rolled in a cloud of dust and gained feet, moving more quickly than before.

They circled each other.  Again, Nemetes attacked.  Nasir turned, blocking the blow to shoulder and striking out with opposite hand to bat aside oncoming punch.  With a kick to supporting leg, Nasir went down upon knee, but no sooner had his knee touched dirt than he was springing up, shoulder striking Nemetes in the belly and knocking him back.

Yes, the training Agron had given him regarding fighting in close quarters was being well used now.  But the purpose of such techniques was not to end the fight: it enabled time and distance for escape.

Again, Nasir and Nemetes pressed each other: a strike to sword pommel had Nemetes dropping weapon to the roar of onlookers but the awkward angle of attack meant Nasir’s weapon was also momentarily useless.  He kicked Nemetes squarely in the thigh and there was a flurry of dust and shuffling before Nemetes dived for his dropped weapon and the fight resumed.

They engaged yet again and with every clash of weapons, Agron’s pride was growing brighter, stronger, greater.  Fuck, but his Syrian man was determined.  Teeth bared and movements swift.  Agron’s jaw clenched with a wave of sudden heat at his lover’s competency.  Six weeks ago, this little man had been a primped and perfumed house slave.  Now his strength and speed, his intelligence and long-suppressed instinct for battle were unleashed.

A glorious sight to behold.

Nasir was quick, but he was unable to land a “killing” blow.  Nemetes was stronger, but he could not subdue Nasir.  He could not even strike Nasir’s scar despite repeated attempts to take advantage of the clear weak point.

Agron ignored the cheers and shouts as the match dragged on.  Nasir was visibly tiring -- understandable after injury and weeks of only basic exercise -- so it was a matter of time before Nemetes managed to draw him in with lowered guard.

When Nasir lunged, Nemetes caught his wrist and sent him into the dirt with sword quickly following.  Nasir rolled, but found blade at throat before bringing up his own guard.

Not that he was willing to stop.

Agron’s brows arched as Nasir ignored the killing blow and, using the presence of solid ground at his back, he sent both fists into Nemetes’ chest.  The German landed hard in the dirt.

Fuck.  If the sounds of the crowd couldn’t be heard all the way in fucking Capua, then it was only by will of the gods.

“Halt!” Oenomaus called.

Finally, Nasir ceded.  Breaths wheezing, Nasir pushed himself to his feet, extending an arm to Nemetes who grasped it with a mocking grin.

“Nemetes,” Oenomaus called, addressing the less winded combatant, “you press predictable attack to well-guarded areas.  If you seek to topple your next opponent more competently, strike at knees and feet.  And utilize _****speed.”****_

Nemetes acknowledged the guidance with a nod before his gaze flickered toward Agron.  “I would accept gratitude for not damaging your little man!”

Agron’s brows lifted and chin tilted to the side in astonishment.  Whatever reply he would have made was interrupted by a snarl.  Nemetes startled as the wooden practice blade was knocked from his grasp and a shove upon chest sent him stumbling back.

“How stands ego now?” Nasir challenged.

Nemetes stiffened.  “Larger than you -- so small you easily escape notice!”

“Nasir!” Oenomaus barked before Nasir could lunge.  “You would do well to consider strategy which draws opponent in rather than allows him room to regroup.”

Nasir nodded and, heeding instruction, replied sincerely, “Gratitude, Oenomaus.”

“Lugo!  Harudes!”

Nasir passed his weapon to Harudes, who patted him on the shoulder as if praising a pet for a trick.  Nasir retired to the water jug and Agron turned back to his trainees, none of whom were bothering to hide knowing smirks.

“Raise sword.  First position!” Agron bellowed with perhaps a bit more heat than he had previously.

It wasn’t until evening meal was nearly upon them that Agron was able to cross paths with Nasir in temple corridor.

He reached for Nasir’s face with worshipful hands and kissed him with gentle devotion.

“Am I rewarded?” the Syrian man teased when Agron pulled back.

“That was for me.  Would you like one as well?”

Fingers curling against Agron’s neck returned his mouth to Nasir’s.  This time, Agron obeyed the press of those ever-strengthening and slowly-roughening hands, meeting every attempt to capture his lips.  Nasir’s tongue swept against his as Agron traced lines of muscle and pulse with fingertips.

A hand tangled in Agron’s necklace and gave a brief tug.  Agron grinned even as Nasir walked backwards toward their room, eyes promising a memorable celebration.  The removal of fucking bandage deserved no less.

Agron nuzzled and nipped at lips and chin, hands upon arms guiding him toward their pallet.  In a rush of sudden laughter, Agron found himself upon back.  Nasir grinned, fingers trailing through Agron’s hair and over chest, warmth and weight settling upon Agron’s waist, leaving him breathless as palms skimmed over dusty fabric upon Nasir’s thighs.

Nasir kissed him again and this time neither of them took pause.

They were the last ones to receive evening meal.  The knowing looks and snickers were easily ignored.

The duty of maintaining the watch, however, was not.

On the sixth day, Agron noted that rotations were beginning to slip.  Scouts, when questioned, were found to be making not three circuits but two, and allowing themselves a rest.  Lookouts picked at their shoes and scratched ass.  An inspection of the cellar uncovered a basket of cured meat becoming dangerously soft in the damp air.

Agron brought the meat up himself and ordered it served for dinner.  “When complaints are voiced, say that this is the result when cellar stores are not seen to with careful eyes.”

That would surely goad those who were charged with maintaining the temple, tunnel, and supply cache to take better care.

For the first time, Nasir grimaced through a meal.  The meat was not rancid, but it tasted of dank earth.

That night, at onset of fourth rotation, Agron and Nasir were once again nudged awake.

“Nothing to report,” Fulco droned on a yawn before waking Donar to take up scouting duty.

Nasir gave Agron a quick kiss and went to rouse Lugo, who groaned and swatted at him, complaining that there was time yet before they had to relieve the lookouts.  Nasir left the man and, went up to the wall alone to relieve a freed man of his charge, accepting the sword that the man passed him.  Then Nasir sent the other man down to wake Lugo.

On excuse of fetching a drink of water, Agron leaned against nearest pillar, keeping an eye on the German as he grunted and huffed and complained with every step from his bed to the top of wall.  He held out an insistent hand toward Nasir, who adamantly refused Lugo’s request, turning his back on the man and walking the wall, gaze cast toward temple surroundings.  Clearly frustrated, Lugo threw a warm fur pelt around his shoulders and glared out into the darkness.

Seeing that everyone had been set to purpose, Agron returned to bed until Donar woke him with his report.

But it was not Donar’s voice that pulled him from deep sleep -- nor a nudge from the man’s boot -- but a shrill cry of “ROMANS!”

Agron leaped to his feet, finding three fucking Romans grasping shield and sword striding across the portico.  Agron’s hand flew to his side, but his sword yet lay upon the floor with belts.  It was with fist then that he attacked the nearest armored fuck.

He dodged Agron’s long reach and Agron was struck, tumbling off to the side and landing hard.

Shouts and running feet.

Torch light.

Agron gained feet and rushed forward just as Mira emerged from temple corridor with bow and arrow and--

“Enough!”

The foremost Roman soldier removed helmet to reveal the face of Spartacus.

Crixus and Gannicus likewise pulled helmets off.

Agron’s jaw clenched and hands fisted and-- fuck.  What was this?  And absent warning from--

Nasir!

With a glance, Agron noted that no figures stood upon the wall.  Heart pounding anew, he cast about for someone to send in search and aid of--

The light of torches near temple gate drew his gaze.  Nasir, Lugo, and Donar approached.  Faces grim but bodies unharmed.

Suddenly, Agron understood.

“This was but fucking test!” Agron spat.

“If it had not been,” Spartacus replied, “you would all be for the afterlife.”

Fuck!  Fuck fuck fuck!

Agron turned away, frowning fiercely enough to make every muscle in his body ache.  A fucking inspection and they had fucking failed.  Agron’s people had failed.  Agron had failed.

FUCK.

Agron seethed.

Oenomaus stepped forward.  “We will _****not****_  be taken unaware next time.”

“I would see words,” Spartacus replied, “forged into action.”  Casting his gaze upon the wide-eyed crowd, he bid: “Rise and take morning meal.  The day ahead of us will be long.”

With those parting words, Spartacus strode into the temple.

Furious, frustrated, and fuming, Agron descended the steps to speak with the men who he had set to charge.

With a jerk of his head, he called Donar over.  “Your report.”

The man shrugged helplessly.  “I was struck while taking a piss.”

“Remove eyes from own fucking cock next time!”

Donar glared.

Agron checked stiffly, “Do you require Camilla’s assistance?”

“No, I require fucking cock removed from ass!”

“As do we all,” Agron muttered to the man’s retreating form.  He then turned to the lookouts.  “Lugo, Nasir.  Report.”

Nasir glanced at Lugo, who faced forward in silence.  Nasir spoke first, “If I had not been pulled from top of wall, I would swear no threat approached.”

The anger in those dark eyes was genuine.  The gritted teeth and tensed jaw spoke of true aggravation.  Agron turned to Lugo with expectant look.

“Lugo same.”

Nasir turned face away, shaking his head in mute irritation.

Agron nodded, accepting their words, though he made no effort to conceal dissatisfaction.  “Consult Camilla if you suffer wound.”

With a grunt, Lugo bullied his way through the crowd upon the steps either in search of food or bed.  When Agron turned back around, Nasir was already halfway up the wall where his dropped sword rested.  He sheathed it with an angry motion and prowled the ledge.  A small but fearsome cat nearly hissing and spitting at the violation of its territory.

Agron released a harsh breath.

They took morning meal as Spartacus had ordered, but the taste was bitter.


	16. Do Not Yield

“We cannot defend the temple if we are at odds with one another,” Spartacus lectured, the words a variation on a theme he had been repeating for some time.

Agron stood with his people in the yard.  Nasir on his right.  Lugo to left.  All who had been under Agron’s command -- those from lands east of the Rhine, those from the Brotherhood, those liberated from villas -- gathered upon the sand to receive the weight of judgment.

The air was additionally sharpened by disappointment, displeasure, and a creeping dread that they had all been given a taste of defeat which was more certain than ever.  Inevitable.

Agron stood with them and met Spartacus’ unreadable gaze, head held high.  He offered no excuses.  He would accept blame for failure as readily as he would share in success.  It was what Spartacus would do in his place.

He would also keep two brothers -- once fast friends but now snarling at each other with bitterness -- from inflicting injury upon one another.  Nasir and Lugo: Agron had thought them on better terms with one another, but as accusations and complaints filled the air, it became clear that resentment lay as thick as snow in deep winter upon the lands east of the Rhine.

Agron turned attention to Lugo as the man drew breath to bellow, “Give Lugo warrior to share watch.  Not little man with little balls!”

Agron held no desire to come between his lover and source of insult, but he pushed each man back, wedging himself bodily between them.

“My balls did not allow breach!”  Nasir hissed, pushed beyond reason.  “Your eyes were closed in pursuit of dreams!”

Agron looked back at Lugo, leveling a moue of disgust upon the shame-faced fuck.

Spartacus’ disappointment echoed: “You fell to slumber?”

Not only would Lugo deny Nasir the right to be called a man and treated as such, he would use Nasir to push blame off of himself!

Forgetting his role as intermediary and impartial leader, Agron made room for himself to meet Lugo face-to-face with Nasir, protected, at back.  Agron spat: “And you blame Nasir, you lazy shit.”

Nasir’s hand pressed against Agron’s side: if Agron did not step away, Nasir would surely go around him to extract payment for both slights.

Before his body relented under familiar touch, the fucking Gaul shouted, “Turn effort from defending _****your boy****_  and look to your own failings!”

The words crashed like jars of pitch at Agron’s feet and _****ignited.****_

Fucking fuck that shit-eating Gaul.  Not only was Nasir his own man, but Agron was more than willing to face attack from worthy enemy and not some slinking shit in dead of night!

The Un-fucking-defeated Gaul, who hardly deigned to lift single finger in aid of fucking cause, dared to speak of failings!  Something the worthless pile of pig shit would soon experience for himself!

“Then let us relive them and see different fucking result!”  Agron charged the steps.

Spartacus raised a hand.

There had been a time when a mere gesture would not have been enough to stay the coming clash of fists and fury, but it was sufficient now.  But only just.

With teeth bared in a snarl that would do a wild little dog proud, Agron retreated, finding that Nasir had moved to shield his back, gaze fierce upon the Gaul, and Agron drew considerable satisfaction from the display.  But satisfaction would not aid them now.

Feet returning to yard, Agron scrubbed hand over face to scratch the fading anger from his mind and open eyes to what lay beyond.

And there was much beyond.  Much to be done.  Much to protect and prepare.

Oenomaus descended the steps and set everyone to task.  Nasir and Lugo would return to position upon wall.  Perhaps the man expected them to brawl out their differences and tumble to the ground before regaining senses.  It was not an unrealistic expectation.  And likely one of the few things able to penetrate thick German skull.  With that in mind, Agron dismissed Lugo -- whose temperament was as hardheaded as any of his kin -- and turned to Nasir.

Dark eyes were yet focused beyond Agron’s shoulder and upon Lugo; Nasir’s gaze flashed with hostility and lips slowly tightened into a sneer.

Agron reached out to capture Nasir’s attention with firm hands.  The scruff of Nasir’s emerging beard -- the hair there thicker and sharper than Agron’s own -- scraped against palm in a quick flash of friction.

Nasir’s gaze snapped to Agron’s and Agron’s pulse leaped once at the defiance therein.  Sharp and sudden.

Yes, Nasir was his own.  Fucking.   _ ** **Man.****_

Leveling a chastising finger in front of his lover’s face, Agron bowed head and confided in a low tone that held not command but conviction: “I believe you can do this.”

Nasir blinked, expression opening.

Yes.  There.  Agron’s meaning was grasped by Nasir’s quick mind: Lugo’s opinion was of importance only to Lugo and no one else.  Nasir’s actions would determine whether others would come to share the base fuck’s views or not.  Only Nasir held power over this and Agron was entreating him to claim fucking purpose.

To anyone in the yard looking on, it would seem as if Nasir were being scolded.  Nasir’s brows drew together in determination; his lips pulled back in a brief show of teeth.  He gave a quick nod and Agron was reminded of that moment -- a lifetime ago -- when he and Duro had been tethered to poles, bracing themselves against pain and inevitable death at the hands of Gallic piss and shit… only to turn certain fate to their own purpose.

When he lowered his hands, there was certainly no “boy” or “little man” looking back at him.  In truth, Agron doubted the former had ever been permitted to draw breath and Agron had not witnessed the latter since the moment Nasir had gone against Agron’s counsel and broken words with Crixus.

As that act of defiance had led to Naevia’s rescue, one would think the fucking Gaul would appreciate that much at least.  Regrettably, the fuck was too dim-witted to see it.

Well, he would regret it.  Nasir was not a man to be underestimated.

Agron’s lips twitched in what would have been a beaming grin if he’d allowed it.  But Nasir witnessed it nonetheless; he winked -- fucking _****winked****_ \-- and then turned smartly upon heel to see to his charge.

A laugh tickled Agron’s chest.  Fucking Syrian.

Spirit lifted, Agron glanced toward Spartacus.  Seeing the shit-for-brains Gaul stomp off into the temple, Agron jogged lightly up the steps to stand on the Thracian’s other side.

Agron arched a brow at the knowing look his chosen position earned him.  He would not stand upon the same stone and breathe the same air as that useless moron from Gaulia.

Spartacus surveyed the yard, contemplative frown returning.  “My words crash upon ear.  But fail to be as heart.”

Perhaps, on this matter, Spartacus would accept Agron’s counsel.  After all, those words might have been meant for Agron many times over.  By now, he should be able to provide best method for opening ears and driving point into mind.  With a hand upon Spartacus’ shoulder, he declared, “Then we must stab deeper.”

Spartacus turned to face him, awaiting more detailed suggestion.

Agron cast a look out upon the yard and groped for one.  “Perhaps punishment for those who fail in the day’s training.”

Such consequences had been effective in Agron’s experience, but would Nasir complete his duties absent incident?  It was a risk, but Agron had confidence in him.  More than enough for this.

Spartacus argued back, “One cannot forge trust and loyalty at the ends of a whip as the Romans believe.”

It occurred to Agron that perhaps what Spartacus required was not _****good****_  options, but a variety of poor ones.  In labeling each thus, the Thracian might eliminate undesirable ideas to reveal one with merit.

Agron jokingly proposed, “Then what would you use?  Soft kisses and whispers of love?”

Agron grinned irreverently as Spartacus startled.  The Thracian then huffed out a breath of laughter, lips forming a wry smile.  “Hm.”  Before Agron could lob another ridiculous volley, Spartacus’ brow smoothed.  By the gods, the clever shit had thought of something.

He turned away from the yard and faced Agron.  “Gather Fulco and Harudes.  There is a thing I would have you do.”

Agron shifted from one foot to the other as he weighed Spartacus’ manner, attempting to anticipate the Thracian’s forthcoming insane scheme… but in vain.  Agron had not the patience to puzzle it out.  “What are your thoughts?”

“To see fingers joined in single purpose.”  Spartacus glanced down to his own hand which he shaped as if holding a cup… or goblet.  A gesture known in all the lands Agron had traveled as a call for drink.

A call for drink.  By the fucking gods.

Agron laughed.  Of course the mad Thracian would think to have them all swimming in cups to mend battered pride.  With a quick smack to the man’s chest, Agron left to see to it.

“Do we hunt?” Fulco asked.

Agron shrugged.  In a manner of speaking, yes, they would hunt.  He said, “Gather sword.  We are for the road.”

Harudes scowled mightily.   ** **“ Where do we go with that Celt fuck?”****

In the interest of speed, Agron replied in the tongue of his homeland: ****“ To the road.  If you need someone to fucking hold your hand, you’d best remove it from your own cock first.”****

The man snorted and promptly outfitted himself for the trek.

As they passed through the gate, the sound of a blade snacking the wall drew Agron’s gaze.  Nasir crouched on the balls of his feet, eyes tracking their departure.  “Where are you bound?”

“Not far,” Agron evaded with a cheeky grin.  “Look for our swift return.”

With a cocky salute, Nasir stood and roamed the ledge as a man with renewed purpose.

****“ Your little man can lift a sword of steel,”**** Harudes chuckled.   ** **“ I would have bet coin against it!”****

Agron sent the idiot a hard glare.   ** **“ Challenge him to combat and find assumptions false.”****   

Harudes declined: ****“ His brute of a man would tear my cock off when I broke him.”****

****“ Nasir would see to that absent my aid.”** **

Harudes stubbornly shook his head, laughing.  Idiot goatfuck.

Fulco glanced over.  “The stupid fuck speaks against your boy?”

Agron swallowed a sigh.  “So do you, you ignorant shit.”

“In what manner?” Fulco squawked.

“If insult escapes notice, you shall learn of it at Nasir’s hand.”

“As he’s taught you?” the man snorted snidely.

Agron stomped to a halt and grabbed Fulco’s arm, swinging the man around to meet Agron’s glare.  “He stood against Roman soldiers and his wound was sealed by fire.  In fucking silence.  The least you can do when insulting a man of the Brotherhood is speak words to his face.”

Fulco held up his hands.  “No offense intended.”

“Then close fucking mouth.”

Wisely, neither Harudes nor Fulco pressed him further.  But the issue had been raised and it seemed not unrelated to Lugo’s complaints: some did not consider Nasir to be a warrior of any skill.  Agron was unhappily aware that he could hardly blame them; they had not seen with their own eyes how quick and cunning the Syrian could be in actual battle.

In truth, Agron himself had not witnessed this since they’d taken the slaver cart weeks past, but he had advantage of training Nasir in knifework and in witnessing the man’s inner fire.  Anyone who possessed the same knowledge would not dare to think the Syrian any less of a man.

But.

The Romans would come and soon.

Nasir would fight.

It was the only test his kin would accept.

In the meantime, they hurled slights and offered patronizing gestures.

Hardheaded fools, all of them.

Once, Agron would have threatened these moronic fucks with bodily harm if they so much as thought about harassing someone Agron held to heart.

That was what he had done for Duro.

For himself.

Because Agron’s very being had rebelled at the possibility of harm befalling his little brother.  The day Duro had challenged Crixus four fucking times… it had taken more strength than Agron had ever thought he possessed to stand aside and let Duro face that fucking Gaul alone.  It had been then-- in that moment -- that Agron had seen his unfailing determination to protect his brother not as a strength, but a weakness.  And as days passed, Duro had gradually shifted out from under Agron’s mantle and begun to finish his own fights.  Agron had strained to let him.

He’d been wrong to fight his brother’s battles as well as his own.  And Agron knew Nasir would not thank him for interference.

That did not mean Nasir was ready to take on a bull-headed German and a witless Celtic fuck in combat.  If Agron wished for Nasir to hold his own, then Agron would encourage his training.  He would stay the urge to lunge between Nasir and every on-coming bruise and scrape.

It was this very same sentiment that had driven Agron to goad Duro to--

_****“Swing sword, you piss!”** ** _

_****“Raise shield, moron!”** ** _

_****“By the gods, yes, hands are bound -- so kick and spit in the fuck’s face!”** ** _

_****“Move feet, brother.  Cast these chains from thoughts and take another fucking step!”** ** _

_****“Knock the fuck senseless and enjoy deserved rest in bed of rot and shit.”** ** _

_****“Rise and fight to your final breath or prove the name ‘brother’ false!”** ** _

From first battle to Gallic army camp; from long treks with bound hands to nightly fights in stinking, filthy ring; under hot sun and bodies worn from hard labor; upon the fucking sands of Batiatus’ ludus, a single intent was ever clear: keep fingers curled in, keep fists clenched, and do not yield.

Do not yield.  With gods’ favor, it was as simple as that.

They took up position distant from temple paths and listened for the sound of clay amphorae gently clanking and clattering.  The first wagon -- too silent to contain what they sought -- was allowed to pass.  The second rattled and chimed as music to fucking ears.  It was taken with ease.

Agron grinned at the sight of the hold: grain, salt, olive oil, figs and dates, cheeses, and -- most important to their cause -- wine.

“We return victorious,” Fulco smirked, stripping the bodies of valued weapons, coin, armor, and cloth.

Agron hauled the corpses off of the road.  Harudes covered them with dirt and rocks to delay discovery.

The day had started poorly -- and Agron’s thoughts had weighed heavily thereafter -- but perhaps things might brighten and lighten.  At the very least, wine possessed the quality to make it appear so.

Agron took the lead in bringing the wagon back to the temple.  Nasir had been right: Agron desired position at the front of any venture.  Nasir was likely yet upon the wall, watching for him, and Agron would not willingly give him cause for worry.  He would, in fact, strive to give his lover cause for pride.

It was a gift Nasir endlessly bestowed upon Agron that Agron would see returned in kind.


	17. Bonding

Wine was flowing.  Spartacus’ will was done and the efforts of Agron, Fulco, and Harudes well received.  Despite this, Agron refused a cup for himself.  He would share Nasir’s and sip sparingly.  Agron had no great need of wine when he was yet flushed with success from the raid and presently curled around his lover.

The shade upon the portico was pleasant after a hot afternoon beneath merciless sun and cloudless sky.  Nasir permitted Agron’s arm braced upon left shoulder.  Nasir’s arm slung around Agron’s waist and their chests brushing with every breath.  Standing close.  It had been many days since Agron had been afforded this luxury and the time to stretch their contact to satisfactory duration.  What wine could compare?

Nasir drank from the cup before passing it to Agron.  He took it as it afforded excuse to touch Nasir’s fingers and draw his gaze, lean down, and steal a swift, smooth kiss.

“If not for the absence of both stain and taste of wine upon lips, I would believe you overcome with drink,” the Syrian man accused.

Agron chuckled.  “Gods save us both if I am.  My restraint is thin.”  The nuzzling kisses he placed upon Nasir’s hair were meant to turn thoughts in specific direction.

“You require rest.”

Agron tilted his lips against Nasir’s ear.  “I require you.”

Nasir smiled.  “Welcome words.”  As chin angled toward him, Agron allowed room for their gazes to meet.  “Should you--”

Had Spartacus not called their attention, Agron might have heard the remainder of Nasir’s thought.  He also might have abandoned the gathering entirely and herded Nasir back to their room with scruff-edged kisses and callused fingertips.

Given the challenge that Spartacus soon issued, perhaps it was best that Agron had not been so impelled.

“It lifts heart to hear voices raised in spirit,” Spartacus began, “to see us bonded!  Not by brand.  Not by homeland.  But by an ideal that every man -- every woman -- should be born, should live, and should die with the taste of freedom forever upon their lips!”

Exhaustion and fear forgotten -- such was the power of wine -- voices were raised in enthusiastic cheer.  Agron clapped Nasir on his far shoulder in silent vow and reminder that they stood at each other’s side.

“Yet,” the Thracian added, “if we are to defeat the Romans we must put aside our differences.  And come together as one.”

Agron met Nasir’s gaze and grinned.  This was what Agron had not been able to tell him sooner: the true purpose of stolen wine.  The genuine surprise Nasir showed him was delightful, and Agron’s inhibitions lowered even further.

“Let us have sport,” Spartacus called, “pairing those of you with ill feelings against your equals and let us see if victory triumphs petty quarrel.”

Looping his arm over Nasir’s neck, Agron hugged him close in anticipation, grin wide enough to cause cheeks to ache.

“Donar!  Nemetes!” Spartacus shouted to the roaring approval of the celebrants.  “Take position.”

Nemetes downed the remains of his cup and descended to the yard, ignoring Donar’s sidelong glare.

“Lugo!”

The man roared his readiness, drawing both Agron’s gaze and grin.  It was no surprise when Spartacus added, “Nasir!  You will face them.”

Mira turned toward Nasir, beaming encouragement and anticipation.

Agron curled his arm, guiding Nasir’s brow close and pressing his own against it.  Grinning widely, he said below the cheers, “Claim fucking purpose.”

Nasir huffed, teeth grinding together.

Agron heard himself giggle.  Fuck, but his Syrian was _****fierce.****_

Out of respect for that, Agron dropped his arm, freeing Nasir from his side.  Lugo’s hand came down upon Nasir’s shoulder.

“We win if you keep out of way, little man!”

Nasir’s fury was incandescent and beautiful.

“Don’t.  Fucking.  Call me that!  Ha!” he snarled, knocking Lugo’s hand away and sprinting for temple yard.  Agron barked out a laugh as Nasir _****shoved****_  Spartacus aside and dived from the edge an instant before Agron lost sight of Nemetes.  The poor fuck was tackled to the ground by the inferno that was Nasir.

Lugo, not about to be outdone, lumbered after him, bathed in showers of wine and threw himself upon Donar.

“Begin!” Spartacus laughingly announced, throwing his arm around Agron’s shoulders and leading him to a position with a clear view.

The fight was spectacular.  Nasir’s speed and Lugo’s strength against men known for conserving their resources in battle.  Donar knocked Lugo aside with an arm levered between them.  Nemetes dislodged Nasir, who dived under sweeping arms to roll into the man’s shins, knocking him to the dust.  Agron whooped and cheered and grinned at Nasir’s passion.  The fire that Agron had first seen as male house slaves had stood in a line at Spartacus’ behest to receive freedom and sword -- the fire burning in those dark eyes was unleashed.

“Nasir burns more brightly with every passing day,” Spartacus noted.

“A sight I shall never grow weary of.”

The hand upon Agron’s shoulder squeezed in silent agreement.  They watched Lugo and Nasir exchange glances and, moment later, opponents.  Nasir’s shoulder rammed into Donar’s belly, but he was caught in a quick headlock.

Spartacus suddenly volunteered, “Crixus once doubted the strength of house slaves turned to soldier’s purpose.”

Despite the headlock, Nasir had yet to yield.  He fought with his full weight, nimble feet and quick fists.  Donar’s hold was more uncertain than Agron had ever seen before as the man stumbled beneath Nasir’s efforts to escape.

But Nasir’s current position afforded other advantages: “Knock his ass to dirt, Nasir!” Agron roared.

Inspired by the bellowed words, Nasir slid a slender arm between Donar’s thighs and grabbed onto one leg, yanking hard.  They fell to the ground, Nasir’s weight bearing down upon Donar’s belly.

“He’s become a warrior,” Spartacus remarked seemingly to no one, but the words fell as congratulations for a task well done.

Agron protested the sentiment: “He’s always been a warrior.  Merely absent means and purpose.”

Donar rolled, pinning Nasir beneath him and Agron caught sight of blood.  Nasir’s lips and teeth smeared with it as he snarled and struggled, but he was defeated.  Agron glanced over, finding Lugo already bested by Nemetes, calculation winning out over brute force.  Match concluded, Nemetes and Donar rose and offered arm in aid to the fallen.

“By the gods, you made me earn that,” Donar congratulated Nasir.

“May wine provide us both with adequate compensation,” Nasir returned, forcing a laugh from the man.

From across the yard, Nemetes offered Nasir a nod of respect, accepted and returned.

Agron grabbed another cup of wine and jogged down the steps, passing Nasir’s into his grasp and hunching down to press brow upon brow.  Agron knew he was grinning like a madman, but could not stop himself.  Nasir’s reply was a tired but satisfied curve of lips that caused the cut upon lower lip to ooze.  They clinked cups in toast of a well-fought battle and drank.  Nasir flinched and hissed with irritation when the wine touched split flesh.  Agron thumbed the blood from his chin.

Spartacus called the next combatants forward and Nasir sank down onto temple steps.  Agron stood with him, but was too pleased and proud to sit.  Yet even after the next fight began and he joined his cheers with those of the crowd, Agron kept an eye on the Syrian man as he poked and prodded his sore lip.

“Your first?” Agron leaned nearer to ask, gesturing from his own lip to Nasir’s.

Nasir smirked.  “It is not obvious?”

A solid blow and a roar of approval from the celebrants caught Agron’s attention.  He threw a fist in the air and offered joined his voice to the others’.  Saxa and Mira were both giving a good showing against their stubborn opponents.

A pink tongue poked out to test bruised lip and Agron was instantly distracted.  Hunching down to Nasir’s side, he cupped the man’s chin, mindful of keeping touch light and thumb from pressing upon wound.  “You lower guard before launching attack.”

Humor flared in those dark eyes.  Nasir brushed Agron’s fingers away.  “Advice gained too late.”

 _ ** **Not too late for the battles to come,****_  Agron argued back in silence, grinning as he recaptured his lover’s chin to share a smile, a moment of common ground, before tweaking gently.  Nasir’s head rolled with the motion, lips curled in an enchanted smile.

“We lose…” a voice grumbled from behind and Agron found Lugo approaching with eyes on Nasir, who had also turned at the words.  “But little man fight like giant!”

With a smile, the Syrian man stood to accept a quick, brotherly embrace.  Agron gave Lugo a friendly slap upon back.

“Call me that again,” Nasir warned, “and this giant will fucking topple you.”

Agron grinned as Nasir gestured to himself: a giant in spirit if not form.

Lugo laughed, but nodded: warning heeded.

At the other end of the steps, Donar and Nemetes raised their cups.  Each gesture a stitch in the mending of bonds.

Yet again, Spartacus’ scheme was met with success.  The man possessed a true gift.  One that eventually called for--

“Agron!  Crixus!”

By the gods, Agron had not consumed enough wine for this.  From the look on the Gaul’s face, neither had he; they would fucking kill each other before--

“Take position,” Spartacus continued, guiding Crixus toward Agron with a sweep of his arm.

If possible, the thought of fighting beside the fuck was even more distasteful than facing off against him.  But given that Spartacus had called for Lugo and Nasir to join forces, Agron had no cause for surprise.  In truth, he did not require the Gaul’s help against any two men here.  Even if Fulco and Lydon were called forth to fight, Agron was sure he could best them both.  It would be a matter of a moment to win against--

“Gannicus!  Oenomaus!”

Fuck the gods.

As the former Doctore took position across from Agron, he felt a smirk curl his lip.  Let the Gaul have his little, drunken friend to spar with.  Agron would take opportunity to measure his skill against the only other man to survive Theokoles one-on-one in the arena.

“Begin!”

Agron lunged, ducking under Oenomaus’ guard to deliver a punch to the side.  Spun, dodged, batted aside oncoming fist--

Landed hard in the dirt, flipped over shoulder.

Roars.  Cheers.  Dust upon lips and between teeth.

He gained feet.  Lunged, punched, blocked.  Advanced.  Retreated, arms tangling and forms shifting in clouds of dust.  Movement swifter than thought.

Another attack.  The slap of skin as fists were sent aside and blows landed.  An opening--

Feet swept out from under him.  Crashing down upon back.  Hard.

He was done.  Efforts spent and at opponent’s mercy.

_****Fuck!** ** _

Yet Agron grinned.  A fast fight indeed, but Oenomaus had earned the victory.  Oenomaus took one over Crixus as well and the sight of the Gaul equally defeated at the hands of the man who had taught them both so much was a welcome one.

Any man who could defeat both Agron and the Gaul was a man to be respected.

Agron clasped Gannicus’ arm and gained feet.  Even drunk, the man had fought well.  Or, perhaps, it was from the drink that he drew strength.  Despite defeat, Agron would rely on his own brawn and wits all the same.

He congratulated Oenomaus and accepted a warm embrace from Nasir, pressing dust-covered lips to the man’s sweaty hair.

“Agron.”

Nasir slipped from Agron’s arms as the Gaul stepped closer.  Agron resisted the urge to brace for attack.

“You fought well,” the man admitted, leaning up to nearly spit the words at Agron’s face in challenge, “for a simple fuck from east of the Rhine.”

Agron chuckled and marveled at the lack of animosity in the man’s voice.  Here and now, in the wake of mock battle, the veil of habitual anger parted.  Here and now, at the only moment it could, the pride of rivals was lowered by shared defeat.  Lowered just enough to allow for generosity to be exchanged.  Fuck, but Spartacus must be smirking his Thracian ass off.

“As did you,” Agron returned needling compliment, “for a shit-eating Gaul.”

Agron grinned widely.

The Gaul nearly smiled.

Who moved first was uncertain, but there was nothing tentative about the clasp of open hand upon offered arm.

Agron could see Naevia’s beaming smile out of the corner of his eye.  Nasir was likely to be equally insufferable about this.

“Let us share drink,” Crixus suggested, “and balm wounded pride.”

With a laugh, Agron accepted.  If there was anything he and Crixus might share, it was wounds -- most notably, those of the heart and also pride.  And, perhaps, the desire to punch the smug look off of Spartacus’ face.

“Fucking Thracians,” Agron complained loudly, jostling Spartacus’ shoulder deliberately as he passed.  Crixus’ rasping laughter joined in.

“We are fortunate to suffer only one of their kind,” the Gaul agreed, making no attempt to lower his voice.

They located relative quiet in sufficient quantity, and Agron flopped down in the shade of the portico. When Crixus lifted the wine skin, Agron offered his cup, collected from the steps, to be filled.

Drink shared as promised, the Gaul settled himself across from Agron and Naevia tucked herself up against his side.

Agron lifted a dusty arm to make room for Nasir.  “Do not look so fucking pleased with yourself,” Agron teased the Syrian man lightly, swallowing back a smile and summoning a stern gaze.

Nasir was not fooled.  “Indeed.  It was not me who put you on your back in the sand.”

“Fighting words,” Crixus noted with amusement.

Naevia daringly predicted, “That will one day come to pass.”

Agron shared a smile with his lover.  “A day I eagerly anticipate.”

Nasir’s smile glowed of spirit and fire; by the gods, it was the most beautiful thing Agron had ever seen.

“Me as well,” Crixus volunteered.  “I would pay coin to see Nasir best you, you stupid shit.”

Nasir’s shoulders jerked once with humor.  “Coin.  Hm.  As you have none, that day will not be today.”  With eyes narrowed in speculation, Nasir evaluated Agron.  “Though it could have been.”

Ah, fuck.  The little shit’s mettle would never fail to lift Agron’s spirits.  He passed a hand over Nasir’s hair, forfeiting the gambit.

Nasir turned to Naevia and Agron drank.  Crixus cleared his throat.  “Do you forgive or forget?”

It was clear by the man’s tone that he had no preference or even expectation for either.  Perhaps because the Gaul did not feel he had done anything to require it.  Agron shrugged.  “I’ll happily break your face for your treatment of my brother.”

Crixus’ sneer was a pale shadow of its former animosity.  “He lasted longer for it.”

That was true.  The beatings he’d taken as the Gaul’s sparring partner had certainly not lessened Duro’s strength.  But Agron held no desire to discuss the uprising at the ludus… or the fact that his brother’s body lay at the bottom of the cliff.  Broken and shattered, in the company of men who deserved to be pissed upon.  Only the knowledge that Duro would be displayed and left to rot within Capua, serving as warning to all, had moved Agron to release him over the ledge.  Duro would prefer such an end to being touched by Roman filth.

“Who does your hatred burn for now that we share drink?” Crixus wondered, tilting the wine skin to his lips.

Agron let out a gust of breath, lips curving without humor.  “Oh, fear not.  My hatred of Gauls remains unabated.”

Crixus’ eyes narrowed.  “I would know the offense caused by my people.”

Agron retorted, tone and smile over-sweetened, “You would offer apologies?”

“A distant prospect.  To be found only if grievances are voiced.”

Truthfully, no apologies would soothe the past.  A fact that Crixus knew well.  But to break words was to break the chokingly tight hold of memory.  A memory he had shared solely with Duro.

Agron glanced at Nasir.  He and Naevia had grown quiet, perhaps expecting Agron to request private words with Crixus.

Agron considered it… and discarded the idea.  He refused hide anything from his own heart, and he would not ask Crixus to do something that Agron himself would not.

“I will break words on this once and never again,” he warned.

Crixus nodded, his hand moving to settle upon Naevia’s shoulder.

“Like many in my homeland, Duro and I did not choose to become warriors.  We were fostered by our chieftain and trained in it from a young age.  Fed tales of glory in battle.  I devoured them all.  Duro… followed me.”

Agron cast his gaze upon Nasir and then past him toward a group of drunken Germans cheering upon the steps.  “You know to what end Germans grow their hair long?  Twist it?”

Crixus glanced to one such man with yellow, tangled locks that fell past his shoulders.  “A sign of numerous victories in battle.”

Agron’s chin tilted aside in disagreement.  A wry grin curved his lips.  “The sign of a man who owes life and purpose to chieftain but has yet to be acknowledged for service.  He has no land, is given no share of plunder…”  Thinking of Duro, Agron added, “No wife.  Not until his chieftain gives him leave to claim what he has earned.”

“A fucking ludus,” Crixus summarized and Agron did not argue.

“Do you recall how my brother and I appeared when we first stood on the sands in the house of Batiatus?”

The dark gaze was sharp, quickly seeing the point Agron would make.  “Twisted hair of equal length.  Short yet.”

Agron nodded once, smile hard.  “Equal length, and yet I was elder.”  The Gaul stiffened.  Agron continued, “The locks barely brushed neck, though I had been a warrior since balls dropped.”

Yes, the Gaul saw the significance.  “You and your brother -- your hair was cut.”

Brows rising in acknowledgment of the deduction, Agron explained: “By the first arrogant shits who made attempt to call themselves our fucking masters: Gauls.”

“You carry grudge for capture at Gallic hands.”

Agron laughed, silent and mirthless.  “I carry grudge for the piss and shit that we were gifted to.  I carry grudge for lack of food, water, and rest -- tethered to fucking pole and left to rot in filth.  I carry grudge for blood and pain as my brother and I were used, day upon day, as fucking palus by bored shit-eating goatfucks.”

Crixus lowered his eyes.  He knew how prisoners were treated in army camps.  The Gaul knew, but Nasir did not.

“We were Germans.  We were brothers.”  Agron’s mouth twisted closed against the surge of hatred.  A hidden touch at the back of his neck reminded Agron to breathe.  “The greater my attempt to draw their ire, the greater their pleasure in tormenting Duro.  My brother, who would have been freed of service soon and well rewarded.”  Agron’s teeth ground together.  “Instead-- weakened and shamed with shorn hair.  All glories ripped from him.  Even had we not been taken south from that shithole, even had we been given opportunity to return to our clan, the insult would never be overcome.”

“Hair can regrow.”

“It’s not vanity, you dim fuck.  Do not speak as if ignorant of the lowest level to which a man can be forced.”

Crixus looked at his own hands, at Naevia, at Nasir.  “All in present company have been laid flat upon back, Agron.  We gained feet again.”

Because of Spartacus and rebellion and fire.  What would have spurred Agron and Duro to reclaim lost glory had they escaped the Gauls and crossed the River Rhine back to Germania?  It was a narrow-minded world, far from perfect.  The rules were simple.  Familiar.  A warrior of worth would never allow himself to be captured in the first place.  Shorn hair was evidence of unforgivable failure.

Agron lifted a hand to run fingers through hair, scratch at scalp… but no.  Those touches belonged to Nasir now.  Germania was lost to Agron.

He said, “Dishonor cannot be outlived.”

“You come from a strange people.”

Agron shrugged.  “Pride.  Be it fault or strength, it is our way.”

Crixus nodded.  “You do not hate absent cause.”

Agron met the Gaul’s gaze and held it.  He nodded, seeing the gesture for what it was: something far stronger than mere useless apologies.  It was respect for Agron’s pain.  It was acceptance of his rage.  Agron would never be able to cleave this poison from his spirit; Crixus would never expect him to.

There was no apology.  There was understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cutting of hair (or scalping, even) is emasculating in more than one ancient tradition. I have no proof that Agron comes from people who share this view/behavior. I just really enjoyed playing with motivations for Agron’s hatred of Gauls. And I’m not saying that Agron still holds this view as closely to heart as he did when he was still in Germania, but having long hair is part of his heritage, so he’s never going to forget the loss of it… whether he likes long hair or not isn't the issue -- the issue is that everyone back home will know he'd failed in his duty as a warrior. Agron nopes really hard at that.


End file.
